


Denerim

by RydiaAsuka



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:45:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RydiaAsuka/pseuds/RydiaAsuka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War is ever a tragedy to those who live it, and one cannot go back. It will always leave its mark. This is the story of one city's struggle to survive; of how her people rose up in the face of impossible odds. How they fought, died...and, eventually, won. </p><p>A novelisation of the final battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Conflagration

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a one-shot, but around the time it hit 21k words, I decided to split it up a bit. I figure three chapters at about 9k each will be a bit easier to read, no? Just know that there was no easy way to break this thing up. It all flows into each other part, so I do apologise for how the breaks interrupt that. I hope breaking it up is the right decision.
> 
> Anyway, I wrote this piece because I…was not happy with how the final battle played out in DA:O. I love a good war campaign, and let’s face it…charging the city gates of an occupied city is not good battle tactics. So, I rewrote it. This piece is, thus, very action heavy. If you like that stuff, I think we should get along fine.
> 
> There are a few OCs in here, because there really isn’t any way to avoid them in a piece like this, but with one exception (unless you count Tabris as an OC, which he sorta is, then it’s two exceptions), I tried to keep their importance and involvement to a minimum.
> 
> Anyway go read…and hopefully enjoy. Feel free to leave a comment, because I do love those. :D
> 
> Warnings: Extreme violence, descriptive gore, profane language
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age: Origins, all affiliated characters and settings are the property of BioWare and EA Games. No copyright infringement is intended; no profit is being made.

**_~*Denerim*~_ **

“What’s going on out there?”

“I-I’m not sure, Captain, I—”

“Then perhaps you had best dispense with the excuses and _find out_ , ensign!”

“Y-yes, ma’am!” With a snapped salute, the wiry recruit turned and dashed off, his armoured feet clacking heavily off of Denerim’s paving stones as he jogged towards the gate.

Evin had only joined the military recently, and he had stayed behind when the wardens left, having been declared too inexperienced to handle the march and war that was too follow. He, like the many other newcomers who had flocked to the army at their new king’s call for aid, had been left behind to train. Learning to fight would, ultimately, make them marginally more useful, should the Blight spread this far.

“Monsters!”

At the cry that rang down from atop the battlements, Evin’s head snapped up, brown eyes widening as he spotted the sentry who had yelled. The man was leaning over a crenel, gesturing so wildly he bonked an elbow off of one of the merlons. Evin was about to yell up to ask for more details when a rain of arrows flew over the parapet.

The sentry fell forwards, his body smashing into the paving stones beneath the wall with a sickening _thunk_. Eyes wide, the redheaded recruit turned to flee the scene, heart pounding. This couldn’t be happening! They weren’t supposed to be attacked here! The army had gone to face the threat! Their job was to train. It was a bare token of experienced knights and soldiers that had remained, mostly to keep order in the city with the king away.

Heart in his throat, Evin stumbled over his own feet as he flew back to Captain Solea. He had to tell her! They had to…do something! How had this even happened?!

He would never know, for the blast of Denerim’s gates blowing inwards ended his worries forever.

~

The sky was red.

It was ludicrous, but that seemed to be the only thought that Fälin Tabris could get through his skull at the moment. It was like his mind was rejecting further thought, thought of what that might mean, as he gazed up at the sky above them. Could one beast change the colour of the sky, or was this some doing of a Maker he did not really believe in? Or was the sky just reflecting the burning of Ferelden’s City?

“It is ominous, no?”

Glancing over at the assassin riding to his left, Fälin snorted a humourless laugh. “I was actually thinking that it rather compliments my hair.” At least he had retained his humour, dry though it was.

“Ah, you are most correct there, my warden. It is a stunning picture. If not for the lack of privacy, I would be forced to strip you now to enjoy the view in its fullest.”

“That, and the impending war, right?”

“Tch. Minor inconvenience.”

The redhead chuckled, flaming auburn hair shaking as he swung his head. “Thanks for trying, Zev.”

Expectedly, at least in Fälin’s eyes, the platinum blond’s eyes softened. “It is my pleasure, Fay. You have enough to worry about without ever having fun.”

The Grey Warden just snorted derisively at that. Yeah, maybe they could all use a laugh or two more, but that did not seem likely to happen in the near future. Still, he did appreciate the subtle efforts Zevran was always taking to keep the whole group’s morale up. Too bad they had a whole army to see to, now.

…or, rather, not too bad. In fact, it was quite a useful thing, having an army to fight a war. Though, their little group of nine had done fairly well on its own before now. Perhaps they could have handled it. He choked back a laugh at the mental image of them charging the darkspawn horde alone.

“Fälin?”

Glancing over at the blond, he quirked one eyebrow and grinned almost painfully. “An army’s a useful thing, Zev.”

“Of course, my Fay.” Zevran’s voice was tense, his eyes suddenly wary, a fact Fälin did not miss. Yes, maybe the stress _was_ getting to them both.

“We’re getting close.”

Glancing over as Alistair rode up, the king’s large palomino dun settling in on his right, the elven warden could only tighten his expression in response. There was so much to do. They needed to get there faster…but at the same time, he never wanted to get there at all.

What if…what if Denerim was simply gone? What if his home had been burned to the ground—never _mind_ that much of it was stone. It could still be little more than a hollow husk, a cruel testimony to the life that had once been there.

And, by the Maker, his _family…_

“Fay? You listening to me?”

Glancing up, the elf’s lips tightened momentarily as he nodded. “You asked what I want to do.”

Silence descended for several more seconds before the blond human gently prompted, “… _and_?”

That was a good question—and one easily answered, though it was an answer he did not want to give. He wanted to rush ahead; to charge that horde and save everyone inside the city. That was the reckless, young, _foolish_ city elf speaking.

The army commander, though? He had other plans. Better ones.

“Send the word back; we stop here.”

Alistair’s eyebrows rose noticeably as he glanced at his friend. “Stop? Fay, you sure? Those things are marching on _Denerim_. People are dying!”

Before he could react in any way, to snap like he wanted to, to say that he _knew_ that, Zevran interjected, his calm voice cutting off the eruption that was halfway out of the elf.

“Yes, and this army has marched almost ceaselessly to get here, yes? They are tired.” Zevran motioned around them, to where their troops marched around them. “Would it not be better to face these darkspawn rested and ready to fight, not tired and ready for their beds?”

Those accusing eyes snapped to him again, and suddenly Fälin found himself feeling tired again. With a sigh, he nodded. “Zev’s right. We need to rest and regroup; send out scouts to see what’s going on over there. If we charge in like this, we’ll be useless to everyone ‘cause we’ll all be dead.”

Alistair’s expression only got tighter, if that were at all possible, before the blond turned and rode off. With a sigh, Fälin turned to the contingent of runners that were following on his heels. It was always left to him to do the work; make the bad decisions. Everyone would just yell at him later, anyway.

Issuing orders to the boys, he finally turned back to the other elf. Heeling Gryphon up alongside Zevran’s huge, black stallion, he stopped the red dun only when they were so close their knees were touching.—or, rather, his knee to Zevran’s calf; Gryphon was significantly smaller than Black Warden.

“Thanks,” he muttered, keeping his voice low for the other’s ears alone. “I would have just yelled at him.”

“I know, my Warden. You are very overworked.”

“You can say that again,” the redhead agreed with a dry snort.

“Hm? Oh, Fay, there you are. My apologies; I was speaking to the horse. Did you need something?”

One would think after close to a year in Zevran’s company, he would learn not to be flabbergasted over the incorrigibility of the blond.

One would also be very wrong.

“You’re an ass.”

“Mm, and a fine one, no?”

Fälin leaned up, stretching to reach Zevran’s ear. “The _finest_.”

~

“I’m worried about Fay.”

“Oh, and what gives you the right to concern yourself now, after you have successfully dumped all of your burdens on him for so long?” Morrigan demanded, one eyebrow raised and arms folded beneath her breasts. Honestly, if there was one thing—or, rather, one of many things—she hated about the former Templar, it was his knack for dumping all of his duties on his fellow Grey Warden.

“I have not! I’m the king now, aren’t I?”

“Oh, and what a fine king you are to abdicate all responsibility for _your_ army onto our elf. Very regal.”

“I really hate you,” the blond snapped, eyes narrowing. “Those armies follow him, and you know it! It was the right decision!”

“I do not deny that. ‘Tis most certainly true that you have been dumping your responsibilities on him for so long that the army that should be yours…is now his. It is a fine plan, Alistair. Very clever, especially for you.”

Before the argument could go any further, a fact that rather disappointed Morrigan, Leliana stepped in. “What’s worrying you, Alistair?”

At the bard’s words, the fight seemed to sag out of the pompous tin can. “He looks…tired?”

“Well,” even Leliana had to look away, “he is under a lot of pressure.”

The blond huffed, but there was no heat in it. “Don’t tell me you blame me, too? Look, I’m just…not good at…this!” Alistair accompanied his words with a wild flail that took in the whole army. “Fay’s…better at it than me.”

“Yet you _are_ the king, sorry lot of good that it will do this country. Perhaps when this is done, you can also abdicate your throne to him. Perhaps I will also be able to remain in this country, should that occur.” Morrigan shifted, her piercing, feline gaze boring into the Templar. She hated him, but she did know one thing: He had to accept what he was, or else Ferelden would suffer.

So would Fälin. She could not admit it, not with how he fawned over the assassin, but she was…fond of the elf. The least she could do was snap this useless human onto the right path.

“Look you two,” Leliana’s voice was firm, and Morrigan shot her a sceptical look that the bard returned steadily, “now’s really not the time for fighting. We need to stay together. He needs us, and so does everyone in Ferelden. We cannot fail here.”

Before either of them could retort, a messenger rode up and nodded to Alistair. “The commander and Ser Riordan want to see you.”

With a sense of smug satisfaction, she watched as the idiot trashcan clanked off. Maybe he would, for once, take to heart the good advice she was always throwing his way.

Yes, and perhaps the Chantry was right, too…

~

Denerim burned. The little resistance that had mustered against the horde was quickly being pushed back in the streets, the citizens fleeing into the bowels of the city in raw terror. Women, children, the elderly, craftsmen—they were all going to die; she was failing.

Gripping her broadsword tightly, Solea shouted encouragement to the rough contingent of trainees and veterans that she had gathered. They were a ragtag group, but pure desperation kept them together—and it kept them from retreating. They were single-handedly stemming the flow into the marketplace as people fled behind them. She knew she had to hold if even one person was going to escape alive.

Maker, but it was _hard_.

“First rank, fire!” she snapped, her voice accompanied by the snap of bowstrings as her front rank of archers fired over the heads of the pikemen and into the milling monsters before them. Obediently, those then dropped to their knees, the second rank standing, bows drawn and ready to fire. “Second, fire!”

Watching as the second dropped, prompting the third to rise, the stressed brunette found herself mentally calculating how long they could hold. Her archers didn’t have unlimited ammunition, and even as the thought crossed her mind one of her now-standing first rank fell with a scream. Still, it could be worse.

The darkspawn were hardly intelligent, and they did not work as a cohesive unit; she had to use that to her advantage. So long as they kept firing independently, she could protect her archers for the most part, she just needed to get her men into position.

“All ranks!” she snapped. “Stand! Three volleys, then drop! Fire!” As her archers complied, Solea waved the shieldmen she had managed to find into position, setting up yet another line of defence for the archers. As she was waving them in, a group of armed men and women came trotting up. They looked like civilians, armed with anything that could serve as a weapon, and she had never been happier to see anyone.

“Get on top of the buildings,” she ordered immediately, waving to the thatching above their heads. “Spear down at them, but make sure to stay low. You will be easy targets standing up there.” A few people looked nervous, perhaps intimidated with how quickly she had taken to giving them orders, but Maker be praised, none complained.

Watching as the group rushed off, she spotted one golden-haired woman, a boy barely higher than her elbow at her side. Snagging the woman with a look, she asked, “What’s your name, goodwife?”

“G-Goldanna,” the stranger offered, “and this is Kalian.”

“Kalian?” she asked, trying for a smile that, given the blood leaking from a shallow gash across her forehead, probably looked somewhat terrifying, for the boy pulled back nervously. “Can you do something for me?”

With a hiss, the woman placed a protective hand around the boy’s shoulders. “He’s too young! I won’t let you put him on the front lines!”

Solea could have screamed. Why bring him in the first place if he—oh, never mind. It was a waste of time to try and work out the logic of people. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to fight,” she promised, her hazel eyes holding the boy’s gaze steadily. “Do you know how to find the alienage?”

After a glance to his mother, who finally released the boy’s shoulders, he stepped forward nodding once.

“Good boy! Do you think you can run there and ask them to come?”

Goldanna scoffed. “The knife ears? Why would they come? They probably want us to die!”

Enough was enough; her nerves were frayed enough as it was. “Listen,” she said firmly, “this is their home too. I think they might surprise you.”

“Might.”

Choosing to ignore the woman, she met the boy’s eyes once more. “Kalian?”

After another glance to his unpleasant mother, the boy nodded. “Yes, I can find them.”

“Good lad! Hurry now; we need everyone to help!”

As the boy scurried off, Solea by chance glanced up, only to cringe as a massive shadow blocked out the already-dark sky. Never had she dreamt in her wildest nightmares that she would live to see an archdemon, never mind one throwing fire down on her city.

She was terrified.

She had to hold this gate.

“Archers!”

~

The three Grey Wardens stood stiffly around a cleared patch of earth, none of them saying anything. Really, though, what was there to say? Their plans had been made, now all that remained was to carry them out.

Riordan was to, as planned, go for the killing blow. He would try to slip away from the main army and make his way to Fort Drakon, the highest point in the city. From there, it was hoped that his tainted blood would draw the beast to him. Should he fall, Fälin and Alistair would be following behind for take two.

Should they fail, then Ferelden was lost.

Waving the messenger over, a young girl who was waiting just out of earshot, he sent the order to have the other leaders join them at last. Now that Grey Warden business was dealt with, he intended to relay the plan to his commanders. He and Riordan had cooked up much of it, but he still wanted confirmation from some of the more experienced commanders on the field. He thought it would work, but he was so tired, he might have thought that asking the darkspawn to tea would work…

The others gathered quickly, each of them having been waiting on the order to come. Casting his gaze over the assembled group, he met the eyes of each of them in turn. Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan looked grim, but determined. Irving looked…tired, and more than a little resigned, but also ready. Bhelen’s dark eyes held a readiness he had not expected in the dwarf, though maybe he should have; his people had done this for years. A little distance from the group, Witherfang sat, seeming almost eager. The werewolves would be a formidable force on the field.

He had made some grim decisions recruiting them all, but given what they faced, he could not afford to regret any of them.

Beyond even that were his friends and companions of the past year. He trusted each and every one of them with his life—and now, he needed to ask them to trusts theirs with him.

“The scout returned a short while ago,” he began grimly, “it’s not good. The darkspawn destroyed the gates and are swarming the city. It’s burning.” He shook his head. “They couldn’t get closer to tell more.”

_Dad, Shianni…_

“Well, then let’s go get ’em!”

Shaking his head at Bhelen’s enthusiasm, the elf forced a smile. “That’s the plan.” Drawing Fang with his left hand, he began sketching crudely in the dirt, mapping Denerim in rough fashion.

“Word has it that the gates are gone—that might be to our favour, if we’re to retake the city.” Nods accompanied his words, but he barely glanced up, grey eyes roving hastily as he drew awkwardly. “They’re clustered near the gates, though. Even if they don’t expect us, they know enough to hold them.”

“So, what’s the plan?” Teagan asked, moving to lean over Fälin’s shoulder.

“We find our own way in.” He moved to mark two locations on the front of the wall. “Irving, I need entrances here…and here. Bring the wall down, I don’t care how.”

“But…there will be people on the battlements!”

“Anyone up there is dead, Alistair.”

The blond moved to protest, only to freeze up. It was the simple truth.

“Eamon, take your cavalry and go with Irving and half of the mages; that wall _must_ come down. Witherfang,” he indicated the other mark in the wall, “take your wolves and the other half of the mages—Morrigan, you lead them.”

“An apostate, Fa—”

Whirling on the blond Warden, Fälin’s face hardened. “This is my army, Alistair, and until such a time as this Blight is over, it will remain so. You _will_ abide by my decisions, or you can sit out.”

The former Templar froze at that. Truthfully, Fälin hated being so hard on his friend, but it had to be done. So long as he was head of this army, he had to act the part. Not even the king could be seen questioning his decisions, lest the soldiers start doing so, too. This was the reason why Alistair had been left out of the planning; he knew Alistair was going to balk at some parts.

“I understand,” came the scathing reply. A moment later, Alistair seemed to deflate. “You’re right, of course. Sorry, Fay.”

Nodding, the redhead turned back to his map. “Eamon and Witherfang, you need to take your troops and move fast. While you’re moving into position, Bhelen will be marching on the front gates with his dwarves and golems. I’m hoping that will hold most of their attention, but you still have to move fast. The moment the dwarves engage the darkspawn, Wynne will fire off a flash of light. Don’t miss it; that’s your signal. You _need to bring down that wall_. The moment you do,” he paused, sweeping two lines in towards the main gate, “come in and crush them in a hammer and anvil pincer. If we have some luck, we should be able to clear the gates.”

“The horses will not be able to charge over the rubble,” Teagan offered.

“Find a way.”

“Bu—”

“Don’t ‘but’ me, Teagan. Find a way to charge over that rubble or we’re all dead. I don’t care if the horses have to grow wings; do it. If you aren’t there to be the hammer to our anvil, the darkspawn will overrun us.” Nothing hit as hard as a charge of heavy cavalry.

Surprisingly, it was Irving who piped up with the solution, “I believe we should be able to bring the rubble underground. The footing will be bad, but there will be no blockages.”

“Fine, do it Irving.”

Turning to Witherfang, he asked, “And you?”

It was the Lady who answered, “You need not worry; no rubble will hinder us.”

He nodded, pleased that someone was finally agreeing. “Perfect. Then here’s what I want. The mages that are to go with the werewolves get the fastest horses. As soon as they bring down the wall, send them back to the centre of the main gate. Their job is to stay out of range and blast anything trying to escape.” He hesitated. “And do what you can about the fire.

“The rest of the mages can go with you, Eamon. Have them cover you from behind; don’t let anything out to sneak up behind us and catch us in our own trap.” His eyes darted to the spirit. “The same goes for you.”

Taking a deep breath, Fälin accepted a ladle of water that Zevran thoughtfully handed to him. Draining it, he ran a hand through his auburn hair. Huffing out a breath of air, the elf steeled himself for phase two.

“Now, what is it they say about war? ‘The best plans only last until the first arrow is fired.’” That earned a few dry chuckles. “Well, here’s what we’re doing anyway.”

Stepping around the map, he drew two sweeping line, signifying troops sweeping out towards the depths of the city and Fort Drakon. “Darkspawn don’t plan, and they don’t accommodate for others planning, so let’s pull the wool over their eyes.

“I want the dwarves and golems to hold the gates as best they can; it won’t be easy, but try anyway. Eamon, your knights need to take to the streets—use the Denerim recruits to direct you. You’re to act as a harrying unit; drive them here,” he indicated a large square, one used for public announcements, set near the palace district. “I want a score of werewolves with them. Take to the roofs and be their eyes above the ground. Guide them to the darkspawn and help drive them.

“I want the rest of the werewolves to get here,” he indicated the open square, “as fast as you can.” And here was the catch that he suspected nobody would like. “The mages are going with you; carry them.”

The silence over the group was almost stifling, but nobody said anything. That…was a first, honestly. He wasn’t about to complain.

“I want the square cleaned and I wanted the mages and the werewolves to hide inside the buildings. Before that, though, block the exits as best you can; put up barricades at every entrance save here, here…and here,” he muttered, indicating where he intended the cavalry to come from. “The moment the darkspwn enter, light ‘em up. You _will_ break the horde here,” he looked up, meeting every eye, “or we will all die.

“When the darkspawn enter, crush them; do whatever you have to do. I don’t want them leaving here alive.”

“And what will you be doing while all of this is going on?” Morrigan finally chimed in. He had been expecting it ever since he had announced that she was leading mages, the only surprise was how long it had taken her to speak up.

“ _We_ ,” he emphasised the word, “will be heading to Fort Drakon.” Time, it seemed, to confront his friends.

“Oghren and Sten, stay with Bhelen; hold the gates and clear out as much of the surrounding area as you can. If you get the chance, sweep further in. I doubt there’s another horde out there, but don’t neglect the gates anyway; keep the golems on it.

“Wynne, can you head with the cavalry? Try to keep them as strong as you can; take a dozen mages with you, too. Bring healers. Your unit cannot falter. Stay behind the cavalry and help them push forward.

“Sausage,” he looked to his dog, smiling affectionately, “can you help Eamon, too? Your nose and ears will help guide them.” The dog barked once, his stubby tail wagging. He was a good dog.

“Leliana,” he took a deep breath, knowing that he was about to ask a lot of the bard. He trusted her to be able to handle this, however, “refugees. Citizens—find them. Help them. Take whatever and whomever you think you need. Just…do it.”

“You have my word, Fälin.”

“Alistair, Morrigan, you two are with me; we’re hunting an archdemon.” Morrigan made no response, but the blond nodded firmly, stepping up to clap his shoulder.

“Zev…”

“I am going with you,” the other elf all but growled, drawing an affectionate smile out of Fälin.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Turning back to the assembled leaders, he finally took a deep breath, before glancing at Alistair. “Go give the orders to your officers and order everyone to gear up and form up. You have one hour. At that time, I want all of you to meet back here, and Alistair and I will address the troops.”

Biting his lip, he glanced to Leliana, who willingly stepped forwards. “Maker speed you all.”

“Go!”

They went.

~

Kalian ran like he had the archdemon itself on his tail—and, really, they all did. Ducking around a building, he nearly tripped over something dark and stinking lying across the alley. Not stopping to examine it further, he skittered off to the side and dashed off. He had to make it to the alienage, Captain Solea had said so.

He pushed himself faster as the gate came into view. With a confused whimper, he pulled up before it, eyes widening. The gate was closed. How was he supposed to get in if it was closed?! Dropping to his knees, the thirteen-year-old stared up at it in confusion. He could not help anyone…

“Who’s there?! Get back, monster!”

Jumping up, the teen jumped back, eyes wide and afraid as something clattered against the gate near him.

“W-wait! That’s a kid!”

Kalian breathed a sigh of relief as two elves hovered into view, both holding longbows.

“What are you doing here, shem?”

“He’s just a kid! He probably wants help. Help me open the gate.”

“We can’t take in all the riffraff from out there. If we do that, _we’re_ all going to die!”

“N-no!” Kalian finally burst out, eyes wide and fearful. “Th-the marketplace! Come to the marketplace! We’re fighting there! Help us,” he all but begged.

“No way, kid, we’ve got our own problems.”

Had his mom been right? Would they not help? But, Captain Solea had said…

“No, wait, let’s hear him out.”

“What, are you crazy? If we leave, we’re all going to get slaughtered! We’re safer here!”

“No, we’re not. We’re penned in. When they come here, they’ll overrun us eventually. We’ll be safer if we’re with others.”

“Or, we’ll just get killed faster!”

“Please!” Kalian begged, jumping into the conversation. “Please help us!”

With a nod, one of the elves nodded and turned to run off.

“Where are you going?” the other snapped.

“To get Shianni.”

~

Solea could not believe that she was still alive. Somehow, her makeshift army was holding—and, beyond that, it was growing. She had to have almost all of the resistance in Denerim with her, holding this gate. Most of them were half-trained recruits and civilians, but that did not matter, because they were _holding_.

At least, they were until _it_ came. Two ogres led the way, their massive heads lowered into a charge that the pikemen barely managed to stop. As it was, at least a third of them wound up on their backs, and some of those did not get up again. With a curse, she waved some of her reserve into line. She could not let this line break. They were the defence for her archers.

Her archers had been running low on ammo, at least until a crowd of the elderly ran up, their arms filled with swaths of bloody arrows that they had retrieved from dead darkspawn. She had immediately sent them out again, along with many of the children who ran to her, lost and scared.

But none of that mattered when _it_ came.

The darkspawn obeyed it. She did not know how or why, but they did. They focussed their assault, drawing back into an organised charged that broke on her pikemen, but took half of them with it. Before she could regroup, the ogres came, and in moments her line was broken, her archers jumping back and fleeing in a panic.

This could not be happening. Things had been going so well, they were holding, they were…!

A blast of fire ripped through the charging darkspawn, killing many of them and drawing the rest up short. Turning to look behind her, Solea found herself face-to-face with a tall man dressed in robes that might once have been fine, but now were barely holding together. And he had a staff.

Him, and the score or so of men and women clustered behind him.

“Move, we will handle this. Regroup your troops.”

Taking a deep breath, she finally nodded, racing off to call her line back to her and get them back into position while the mages rained death of fire and ice down upon the darkspawn trying to break into the marketplace proper. As she worked, her mind reeled. Mages, there were mages here? She could have sworn the Circle snapped up every one of them for the war. So how…?

Her eyes widened as she looked them over once more. Not mages.

Apostates.

She had never been happier to see them.

Under the heavy fire from the apostates, the flow of darkspawn was stopped dead. They began milling, calling out in the guttural voices and pushing back to escape the death being showered on them in the bottleneck. In front of the mages, her lines began reforming, grim determination painting many faces as her soldiers took their positions once more. They would fight for their city.

“Captain!”

Whirling at the screech from behind her, Solea met the scout’s eyes grimly. It was time, was it? The darkspawn were pushing in from other entrances, it seemed. Despite the wall that housed the marketplace, it was not impossible to breech it, and the look in the man’s eyes said that that had happened.

“You know what to do. Rally the spearmen and clog those streets, then give the signal for those inside to charge. Move between safehouses and harry them. Don’t let them catch you.”

The scout nodded once before bolting, his eyes grim. They knew the plan, but actually implementing it without well-trained troops was something else. They were to hid in the buildings, wait until the darkspawn passed, and then charge out, crushing the enemy before moving to other buildings and returning to hiding. The few archers she could spare would fire from second-story windows, and piles of rubble waited on roofs for children to push down onto the foe.

She was relieved that they had had time to finish their preparations before the darkspawn made it this far.

“Break!”

Spinning, Solea gritted her teeth as she saw a group of darkspawn make it into the open square, a trail of carnage following them out. Dammit, she could not afford a break, definitely not this early! How had they broken through so fast? They should have at least been slowed! She knew the answer, though: These were not soldiers, they were civilians.

Before she could order anyone to stop the tide, a rain of arrows fell into the monsters, followed by another and another, until only twitching limbs signalled any life in the growing pile of corpses. A quick glance in the direction of the fire revealed what she had hoped it would: The elves had come.

With the last darkspawn dropped, the fiery redhead leading them raised her bow, meeting Solea’s eyes from across the square, but addressing her people. “Let’s show them that this is our home, too! _For_ _Deneriiiiim_!”

A ragged cheering greeted the elves as they all but charged for her defences, led by little Kalian. Jogging out to meet them, the captain swept a hand out to indicate the rooftops.

“Can you get up there? Shoot down on anything that so much as twitches!”

For a moment, their leader met her eyes, before nodding. “We’ll show them we won’t go down so easily.”

Solea found herself smiling for the first time in what felt years. “I think we’ve already done that. Now let’s remind them.”

~

Zevran stepped forward only once the others were gone. Wrapping his arms around Fälin’s waist, he pulled the other elf into him. For a moment, the redhead resisted, but eventually he relaxed, letting his back rest against the assassin’s chest.

“You are tired, my warden,” he stated obviously. “You carry a great many burdens.”

“We can’t fail here, Zev. If we do, Ferelden dies.”

“Then we shall not fail,” the blond replied firmly. “It is a good plan, and they all have a reason to fight. They will win; we will win.”

“How can you sound so sure?”

Chuckling, Zevran pressed his face into the side of Fälin’s neck. “Because, I believe in you. You have done the impossible before, no? So why not again.”

“Impossible. That’s one word for it,” came the wry reply. “But…thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Perish from a broken heart, certainly.”

“Oh, naturally. Probably one I’d get in a valiant frontal assault that no one will ever remember.”

“You wound me, my warden.”

“Well, we can’t have that. I imagine the darkspawn will be trying to do enough of that soon.”

“You imagine? I should think it is a certainty. It shall be most difficult to avoid them all.”

After a moment’s silence, a single, soft word broke in, “Zevran.”

He knew that tone, and though he tried to remain relaxed there was no controlling the subtle shift of his muscles that Fay would certainly not miss. He was nervous.

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

He barely managed to hide the quiet hitch of his breath beneath his usual mask of indifference. He knew the truth in the words already, but neither had said it—not like _that_. To hear the words, though, it was like a certain sense of reality was suddenly pressing in on them. One, or both, of them could die today. There might…never be another chance to just say it. To really lay himself bare like that.

…and yet, he still could not do it; could not say those three, stupid words.

Turning Fälin to face him, the blond swallowed thickly as he met those steel-grey eyes he was so familiar with. After a moment, he leaned in to kiss the other elf, holding the gesture for a long moment as he gathered every bit of his willpower.

When he eventually drew back, Zevran met his love’s eyes for a long moment before whispering, “And I, you.” For now, he could only hope that was enough.

It was, he could tell as Fälin leaned in once more to steal his lips.

Once they parted again, Zevran leaned in to press his forehead against his Warden’s. “I am…unaccustomed to feeling like this, my Warden. So, we must both come back, so that I may continue to explore this feeling.” And if Fälin did _not_ come back, then Zevran was fairly certain he would not be, either.

Because the only way anyone was killing his warden was if Zevran himself was already dead.

“We should get ready,” the other elf finally muttered, drawing back from the embrace.

Gazing up into the tired, grey eyes, Zevran hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Yes, the sooner we win, the sooner we can pick this up once again, yes?”

Fälin grinned. “Naturally.”

~

“I admit, I am more accustomed to stripping you from your armour than I am to putting it on you.”

Fälin wanted to laugh at the weak joke, but, as Zevran knelt, lacing up his left greave, he found himself unable to summon even the smallest lick of humour. How the blond elf could still be so easygoing was a mystery, though he appreciated the sentiment. Someone had to maintain their normal wit.

“Fay?”

Taking a deep breath, the redhead glanced down at the blond and smiled wryly. He needed to try. “Sorry, Zev. I’m just…”

“Scared? Terrified? Fit to wet yourself? …stunningly handsome?”

“All of the above.”

“Do not fret, my Warden.” A hand landed on his knee. “For we all are.”

“Oh? Is Arl Eamon ‘stunningly handsome’? _That_ I hadn’t noticed.”

“No? Such a shame. It is the beard, I think.”

“Should I be jealous—or are you saying you want me to grow one? That might be hard; we elves aren’t really known for copious body hair.”

Zevran stood, the blond running a hand over Fälin’s smooth chin. “You are quite fine the way you are, I think.”

“You only think?”

The lazy smile that always graced Zevran’s lips turned into a full-on grin at that. “You have caught me. I am quite certain, mi amor.”

“That’s better.”

Accepting the helmet that Zevran had retrieved, Fälin took a deep breath and tucked it under his arm. His stomach felt like it was roiling. He had been unable to eat all day, but Zevran had forced some weak soup into him not ten minutes earlier, and it was not sitting well in him. He was just…so scared, but he could not show it. He needed to lead these people into what would be the most ferocious battle of their time. If he faltered, so many would die. He could not falter.

Thinking about it, Fälin could not help but note how ironic it was that it had all come to this. Who would have thought that a scrawny city elf, who had murdered an arl’s son, would be leading an entire army against a Blight?

Fighting for a glorious and noble cause had had its place in childhood play, so long ago. Back then, playing with Soris, Shianni, and the other children, he had often pretended to be a great and noble warrior, leading troops to war to rescue a fair maiden—often played by Soris, somehow—or something. That had just been play, though, and now, this…this was _real_. Either they won here, or they _died_.

The weapons were not sticks, not this time. His ‘enemies’ were not shrieking, giggling elven children, and his right-hand-woman was not Shianni. Not this time. But Shiannai, and all of those ‘children’ were still in that city, and he still needed to rescue Soris. It was not so different, there.

Only this time the danger was real. And this time, thousands of other lives were on the line.

One thing was the same, however. He was still the leader, and he still wanted to save them. He would; he had to.

Grabbing his freshly-honed blades, Topsider’s Honour and Fang, he rammed them into their scabbards, which were positioned across his back, before grabbing Falon’Din’s Reach and a quiver of arrows, and slinging them across his back, too.

Turning to meet the piercing amber gaze of his partner, Fälin grinned, forcing every ounce of confidence he had to the surface. “Let’s do this, Zevran. I won’t lose this country to any bloody dragon.”

Striding out of the hastily-erected pavilion, where he and the other leaders had been preparing, the redheaded elf led the way to a wagon that had been propped up on its side. Bounding up, he braced himself next to a wheel and stared out over his army.

As he waited for Alistair, Fälin allowed his gaze to rove, taking in the organised chaos before him. They had long-since been forced to leave the camp followers, cooks and grooms and blacksmiths, behind in exchange for speed, so soldiers hastily gave their gear last-minute checks, or saddled horses flighty with the scent of adrenaline in the air. Mages checked potions and vials, while the werewolves almost seemed to napping off to the southern corner of the camp. So long as they were ready and fought for him, he did not care what they did.

Leliana, it seemed, was giving blessings to a group of Eamon’s knights, while Sten almost seemed to be meditating. Beside him, Sausage was curled up, the dog clearly taking advantage of the stop to catch a nap.

Wynne had her head together with Morrigan and Irving, the three seemingly in conference over something Morrigan clearly did not agree with. Yet they were working together, and he had to be glad about that. Morrigan had come a long way since she had joined them, and though she hated the Circle, she was willing to help them in their fight. It was…good to know, that she was on their side.

Over with the dwarves, Oghren appeared to be arguing with Bhelen, his dwarf allies’ arms waving wildly as they disputed some detail of deployment. They still had spirit. They still cared.

They all believed they could win.

He could not betray that faith. He needed to lead them to victory today. Glancing down at where Zevran was leading their horses over, he smiled. He would lead them to victory, or he would die trying. There was no other option.

A ripple in the crowd revealed Alistair, the mass parting willingly to allow the soon-to-be-king to pass through, his own palomino dun gelding in tow behind him. It was time, then.

Once the king arrived, Fälin indicated for the king to hand his reins to Zevran, before helping the blond human onto the wagon with him. With the two Wardens now side-by-side atop the makeshift platform, word quickly spread that it was time, and the hustle and bustle of the camp quickly packed up, soldiers falling into rank quickly. At a nod from the elf, Alistair stepped forward, hands raised.

“My friends! I thank you for being here. Your families and loved ones thank you for being here! Denerim thanks you for being here _! Ferelden thanks you for being here_! Know that it is by your efforts that Ferelden still stands, and it is through your efforts that Ferelden will continue to stand! No darkspawn horde is enough to break this nation! We are going into battle against them, and we will prevail!” Alistair paused pacing slightly, hands now clasped behind his back.

“Why will we prevail? We will prevail because we must! We will prevail because the lives of every innocent in this country depend on it, and we will prevail because we _will not let them defeat us_!

“In the name of my brother, in the name of the Grey Wardens, and in the name of everyone who perished at Ostagar and elsewhere, we go into battle! Win, my friends, for we cannot let this spread! Win for your families, and win for yourself! Let no sacrifice be in vain!”

Stepping up beside his friend, Fälin gazed out over the cheering men and women of his army. After a moment, he raised one fist, signalling silence once more. He was not sure he could top Alistair’s speech, but he was sure as heck going to try.

“Well, I think His Majesty handled everything I needed to say; guess my job is done,” he joked, his efforts greeted by a few chuckles from the riled troops. “Let me just add this. We’re going out there, and we’re going to win, not just because we must, but,” he paused, glancing down at the blond elf waiting at the foot of the wagon, “because we… _are ridiculously awesome_! Never before in the lifetime of those now living has an army gathered like the one before me today!

“This is not my army, and it is not Alistair’s army. Nor is it Loghain’s army, or Cailan’s army, or Bhelen’s army. This is _your_ army! You do not fight for us, you fight for Ferelden; you fight for _our_ _home_! Never forget that! You will not all make it back, but you will all be remembered, and you will all be honoured someday, as your friends and family toast this magnificent army that threw itself at death…and won! So gather your weapons, and let us fight!”

Alistair nodded, hoisting his sword on high. “For Ferelden!”

Lifting his own longsword, the sword of a long-lost Grey Warden, Fälin stopped any cheers before they could begin to add, “In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice.” Glancing at Alistair, the two then roared together, “ _For the Grey Wardeeeeens!”_

Letting the assembled army have its own moment to cheer, Fälin waved Alistair away to get himself settled before motioning for silence once more.

“Mount up! Eamon, Witherfang, take your troops and get into position. Bhelen, get your dwarves and get ready to march. We have darkspawn to kill.”

Now that everything was prepared, and orders had been passed, Fälin found that his legs felt like jelly. If not for Zevran’s help getting down from the wagon, he probably would have fallen on his face. Leaning on the other elf, he took several deep breaths before glancing up into his friend’s face.

“So, how’d I do?”

“Wonderfully, mi amor. I found myself quite aroused by your words.” Zev accompanied his words with a suggestive wiggle of the eyebrows, drawing a huff out of the redhead.

“Good, though I didn’t write it all myself.”

“I would not have known.”

Fälin chuckled. “Yes, I had help from the best.” Reaching out, he tapped the tattoo on the blond’s cheek. “The most…ridiculously awesome.”

Zevran just smiled.

Stepping over to Gryphon, Fälin took a moment to check the horse over. The dun had been outfitted in his battle armour. Or…not his battle armour. For the first time, the elf noticed that the stallion was wearing a new breastplate, one that had been painted with the Griffon of the Grey Wardens. Over the chainmail that hung to the horse’s hocks, there was a thick, velvet blanket that also bore the marchin griffon, displaying it proudly on the horse’s rump. Touching the blanket, he turned to Zevran with a soft sigh.

“This is real.”

“Yes, my warden. I believe they wanted to show their support for the wardens. Alistair was given the same.”

A quick glance behind him confirmed it. Alistair was sitting proudly astride Paladin, and the blond shot him a grin that seemed to say _The Grey Wardens really do have a place in Ferelden_. Fälin agreed.

“No, I mean,” he began again, cutting off to rub Gryphon’s cheek, one of the few unarmoured places on the stallion that he could reach, “this is really real. We’re going to face the archdemon.” Somehow, seeing the horse decked out like a proud parade animal going on ceremony was really making it sink in. It was also making him realise that the Grey Wardens really _were_ needed, and that people understood that.

“Yes, my Fay. It is all real.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Shoving his left foot into the stirrup, he swung onto the stallion. “Let’s go end this.”


	2. Snow

Someone had found her a horse. She did not know who had managed to hid the animal from the army’s conscription, or _how_ , but Solea had never been happier to see a quadruped. Not only did it let her get off her feet, but she was far more able to move between her defences, giving encouragement and rearranging her lines as need required.

One horse was not going to win them this battle, however, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that they were only delaying their own inevitable destruction. Twice more, now, the darkspawn fight had been taken into the square. Bodies littered the paving stones, and blood ran in rivulets in the spaces between., making the footing hazardous.

Loping the mare across to the next group of defenders, she was greeted by a ragged, bloodied face poking out of a window. A hand flashed, once, twice, then a pause followed by four fingers. Forty troops here; they would have to do with that for now.

Nodding, she rode off to check on the next group.

Arrows were dangerously low, despite the groups retrieving them; shafts broke and went missing. The mages—they deserved the title more than any in the Circle, in her mind—were exhausted, but holding. But it was only a matter of time before they had nothing left, too.

“Solea!”

Glancing up at the sound of her name, the brunette greeted Shianni with a tired smile. Though they barely knew one another, the two had become friends of a sort. Shianni respected Solea’s battle experience, whereas Solea respected the elf’s natural leadership and ability to keep her people focussed and determined.

“What is it?”

“They’re charging the main gates again. You need to get back there!”

Nodding, the tired captain turned her mare in the indicated direction. “Gather those of your people with ammunition and join me there as soon as you can. We can’t let them through.” With those words, she kicked the bay into a gallop. Dimply, she wondered after the animal’s name. It would be nice to know it before they both died…

~

They were within sight of the gates. The air was thick with acrid smoke, and it was not hard to see the monsters milling before them. They were watching the army approaching, and that was what Fälin was counting on.

Raising a fist, he halted the dwarves and galloped to the front of the line. Spinning his stallion, he faced the troops before him. “Remember the plan. You aren’t in this alone, not this time! Today, Ferelden fights for Ferelden!” Yanking Gryphon around once again, he dug his heels into the stallion’s sides, while simultaneously yanking on the reins and leaning forward. Well trained, the stallion rose onto his hind legs as Fälin thrust his sword forward. “ ** _Charge_**!”

The riled horse lunged ahead, his hooves beating several long strides before the elf could bring him back enough to let the wall that was his golems surge ahead, protecting those behind them from projectiles. Sheathing the sword, he moved in beside Zevran and Wynne, the latter riding a placid grey mare. Drawing his bow, he waited for Zevran to do the same before laughing.

“Shall we?”

“We shall, Warden.”

Together the two elves raised their bows, arrows nocked, before loosing them over the heads of the charging dwarves and golems. A distant figure crumpled.

“Did we…just hit the same target?”

“Not likely. You missed, obviously.”

“No, I do not think so. I believe great minds just think alike, yes?”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that, Zev.”

~

Morrigan was not pleased to be stuck leading the Chantry’s loyal lapdogs, but she had to admit that Fälin had been right to place her in charge. The fools would probably blow themselves up without proper guidance.

The plan she had cooked up with Wynne and Irving was, she begrudgingly acknowledged, a good one, and so, with the werewolves watching for the signal, she led the work. Quietly, the mages with her were working to move the earth, scooping it out well below the wall to form a large, empty cavern underneath.

“Keep it sealed, fools!” she snapped as the opening to the cavern collapsed where they were pulling the earth out. She watched scornfully as they hastened to fix the problem. If the cavern was not airtight, the whole plan would blow up in their faces. Literally.

“Shore it up more,” she ordered, pointing to the tunnel. “We want the explosion to go the other way, because I, for one, have no interest in being roasted.”

“You could help us, you know,” one of the mages grumbled. Morrigan scoffed.

“I could, ‘tis true, but I shall not.” She might seem lazy, but the truth was, she was going after an archdemon soon. She needed to conserve her energy for the bigger battle. The peons could take care of this part.

“The signal has been spotted.”

Meeting Swiftrunner’s eyes, the dark-haired apostate nodded and turned to ‘her’ mages. “You heard him. Plug your ears, idiots!” she warned, signally them the order to destroy the wall as she did so.

As one, the mages all channelled fire into the cavern, the air instantly and viciously expanding from the heat. A split-second before their own wall went up in a gout of fire, earth, and stone, a distant bang announced the success of Irving’s mages. Her own was deafening, and several of the werewolves actually whimpered as the bang hit their sensitive ears.

Then it was over, the dust settling over several small fires that were still burning. At least the werewolves knew their part. As one, they streamed over the distance between them and the wall, their lithe bodies making short work of the distance. Without a second thought, she turned to the mages, many of whom were frantically fighting to calm panicked mounts.

“Mount up, fools! We are not done yet!” With that order, Morrigan shifted, taking to the skies ahead of the troops. She intended to be there to watch Fälin’s back. She also intended for him to kill the archdemon and grant her what she wanted.

To do that, he needed to arrive alive.

~

Fälin barely even glanced over as the raven by his head shifted into Morrigan. Their plan was working. The darkspawn, originally so focussed on the charging dwarves, were now frantically turning to face Eamon’s heavy-cavalry, exposing their backs to the dwarves…and the werewolves, who floated in on silent paws to ravage anything and everything darkspawn in their path.

“Let’s go, Zev,” he muttered, lowering his bow and nudging his stallion forward, only to find the horse refusing to move. Glancing at the other elf, for it was he who had grabbed Gryphon’s bridle, Fälin frowned.

“Do not protest, my warden. Let them fight; we must conserve our energy.”

Glancing to Alistair, he was met with the blond nodding his agreement to Zevran. “This is their fight, Fay. We’ll take the next one.”

After a moment, the redhead relaxed.  “Fine, but when I get my hands on those darkspawn, they are so dead.”

“I am certain they are trembling in their boots, my dear.”

“Those whose boots you haven’t stolen.”

Lowering her bow, Leliana turned to the two elves. “I wonder where they get their equipment.”

“I should imagine the same place we do,” Morrigan chimed in.

“I hardly think our blacksmiths make them armour,” Leliana retorted, frowning.

“Perhaps not directly, no, but I should think that at least some of what they use once belonged to the dead.”

Glancing to Zev, who just shrugged, Fälin found himself silently agreeing with Morrigan. Darkspawn ate those they killed, so what was to stop them from stealing equipment? It made sense, in a morbid sense.

“I should not like to die, then!” the blond elf suddenly barked out. “My gear is far too fine to be stolen by one of them. It would rust, I fear.”

The ridiculous statement brought a chuckle to Fälin’s lips, one that was quickly joined by Alistair and Leliana. Hey, they had to keep their own spirits up somehow.

Nudging her flaxen mare, Myosotis, to the side, Leliana raised her bow once again, fletching pressed against her cheek. “Well then, I suppose we shall have to get rid of as many as we can now. So that there’s less of a chance one will steal Zevran’s armour.”

“Good,” Fälin replied as he selected an arrow from his quiver, “I paid ten sovereigns for that from Wade.” A sudden memory caused him to wince. “And you don’t even want to know what that dagger cost us,” he kept his tone low, muttering to himself as he drew Falon’Din’s Reach.

“What was that, Fay?” Of course Zev would hear him.

“Nothing.”

The other elf shot him a look that said he had heard exactly what was said, but that he also would not press the issue. Good, because nobody needed to know that the blond was toting around a one-hundred forty-eight sovereign dagger. Especially given that most of them made do with whatever they could rob from dead bodies, some found and others that they killed themselves.

“If you are quite done,” Riordan muttered, riding up on a stocky bay, “then might I suggest we head into the city?”

He knew he was supposed to be the leader, and he knew that that required responsibilities, and it shamed Fälin to admit that he had not been paying nearly enough attention to the battle. Well, aside from snipping the odd darkspawn. It was hard to observe the battle from such a distance, however, and common sense told him that an army’s general had no business on the front lines. Cut off the head and the body would die.

It was exactly the strategy they intended for the archdemon.

“Yeah,” he agreed finally, nodding, “let’s go.”

A glance at the other elf confirmed what he had feared: Zevran did not like the idea. With a soft sigh, he reached across gave the blond’s forearm a gentle squeeze. “Not this time, Zev. I can’t hide back here anymore.”

After a tense moment, the elf’s familiar, easygoing smile quirked at his lips. “Of course, my warden. Let us join those seeking glory in battle, hm?”

Zevran still was not happy with the idea of letting him lead them into the middle of the fighting, but there was just no making everyone happy. He had to do what he had to do, and Zev needed to understand that.

Nudging Gryphon forward, he slipped his bow into its saddle-sheath and drew Topsider. As they rode through the gates, the auburn-haired elf was greeted with his first real sight of what was beyond the walls of the city that was his home.

There were bodies everywhere, both darkspawn and human. And dwarf. The fighting here had been fierce, and it was clear that the soldiers in the city had made some effort to hold the gates, but without any mages of their own they had been woefully underprepared to deal with any darkspawn emissaries that had attacked.

Not to mention that without an army, they had been pathetically undermanned to deal with the horde…

_We should have come faster…_ Shoving that line of thought aside, before it could grow and fester into the sort of self-deprecation that he really just _could not_ afford right now, Fälin sat up in his saddle, knuckles whitening on his sword as he studied the carnage with a critical eye; a general’s eye.

The fighting, even before they had come, evidenced by the human bodies, had been thickest at the gate. No surprise there, as it had been the main point of entrance for the attackers. Surprisingly, it looked as though the humans had not scattered, and had, rather, retreated. Blood smears, both deep auburn and red, painted the sides of buildings, moving back towards the market district or he missed his guess. It made sense. If any defence was going to stand, that was probably the best place to do it.

_Maybe they’re safe. Shianni will get them out if anyone can._

Heeling his mount into a trot, the elf rode further into the city at the head of his companions. The current fighting was dying down, the cavalry, mages, dwarves, golems, and werewolves effectively scattering the numbers posted at the front wall. It seemed their overwhelming display of force had worked…for now.

Fälin did not miss how a ring of golems formed around himself and his friends as they rode further in, the huge creatures preventing any stray missiles from hitting himself or Alistair—or Bhelen, who quickly joined them. After a moment, a blood-spattered Witherfang loped over, followed by Teagan and Eamon. Last to join them was Irving, who was escorted by Sten and Sausage, the latter looking almost gleeful as his stumpy tail wriggled back and forth.

“It worked.” Teagan sounded almost giddy with relief, his eyes gleaming in the brilliant blaze that still consumed many buildings. “By the Maker, it _worked_!”

“For now,” Fälin replied stiffly, steel eyes roving over the carnage illuminated in the brilliant glow of the flames. The little snow that had been moved into the streets in the fighting was dyed red, and the smell of death and smoke was already taking over the city. “We can’t get overconfident; that was only part of them.” And they had had all of their army.

Thus far, it had been anything but a bloodless victory. While most of the dead he saw were darkspawn, they were certainly not a significant majority. Humans and dwarves added their blood and stench to the mess, and somewhere to his left a massive stone pile lay, never to rise again. An unfortunate number of horses were down, some squealing as they fought to get up on injured limbs. And everywhere he looked, mages rushed about, healing those that could still fight, and leaving the rest.

A hard order to give, but it had been necessary. He needed fighters right now, _Ferelden_ needed fighters, not dead weight.

“Irving,” he began stiffly, knowing his next words were not going to be well received, “order the mages to help save as many horses as can be saved.”

“…the horses, Ser?”

“We need them. We can’t harry anything without a harrying crew. And without horses, we don’t have that. Heal them!” And leave people to die.

Sometimes it sucked, being the leader.

With a stiff bow, the older man moved off to do as he was told, leaving a hollow feeling in the elf’s gut. Why was it that he always found himself giving the tasteless orders? When had it become up to _him_ to decide who lived and who died, however indirectly? He had been the one to decide that Zathrian and his clan died, and it had been he who had allowed Alistair to publically execute—if that word could even be used—Loghain.

Still, as much as he hated the decisions he was always being forced to make, Fälin knew that he would be very reluctant to turn over his position to anyone at this point. Not only that, but he _could_ and _did_ make those tasteless decisions. Not everyone could do that. He had taken them this far, and it was his duty to take them the rest of the way. For better or worse, this was his responsibility.

His first order of business? Save the city.

The stretch before them was hurriedly emptying as darkspawn fled, pursued a short distance by yelling, whooping dwarves, and those cavalry who were still mounted. The rest of the army was moving towards him, silence slowly descending save for the moans and cries of the wounded, some calling for help, and some simply hurting.

Driving Gryphon forward with his heels, Fälin tried to ignore the soft splashes that the horse’s hooves caused, not wanting to contemplate the fluids that had to be making up those puddles. As he pushed further into the city, his army slowly gathering around him, the elf gazed up. Drifting down around them were flakes that one could almost take to be snow—if one believed snow to come in various shades of grey, white, and black, of course. Ashes were drifting slowly down. Denerim burned.

“You all know your roles,” he finally heard himself say, voice rising to project over the gathering as much as he dared. “So let’s see to them and end this! Go and do your country proud, my friends, for this is it! This is the end!”

His orders before had been clear, and the others quickly fell to their roles. The cavalry reformed, over a dozen groups splitting off, each accompanied by a mage and a werewolf, and disappearing into the warren of streets.

Soon after, the remainder of the mages and werewolves vanished. Neither was happy with the arrangement, but at least both sides respected his judgement enough to carry out their assigned tasks without complaint. From here on out, it was all up to them. He had an even bigger task to focus on.

“Fälin.”

At the sound of his name, the redhead glanced up and offered Riordan a nod. The other Warden had volunteered to go on ahead, to try and draw the archdemon to the top of Fort Drakon. While Riordan did that, Fälin and Alistair were assigned the task of checking on the city, making their way more slowly to the fort, and killing any darkspawn generals they could find.

“You can go, Riordan. Alistair and I will join you as soon as we can.” He hated leaving the older Warden on his own, but there was little else he could do. Someone needed to watch their backs.

“I thought I sensed two generals when we first entered the city,” the older man began slowly. “I am certain now, however, that only one remains.”

Fälin blinked. If one had fallen, _recently_ , then that meant that…somewhere in the city, there was resistance. People still lived! That was, quite possibly, the best news he had had in a long while.

“Then I’ll find it, kill it, and meet you. Then we can kill that thing, and make it home in time for breakfast.” Except this was his home, and he really did not think anyone would want to be breakfasting here in the near future. The dismembered bodies were a slight deterrent.

“Very good, my friend. See you soon.”

“See you at the archdemon.”

Nodding one final time, Riordan turned his bay gelding, Sabre, and trotted away. Fälin could only hope he made it alive.

As he was turning back, the elf caught Leliana’s gaze out of the corner of his eye. With an almost imperceptible nod, the redheaded bard turned and loped off into the streets, her own mare left behind in favour of the stealth her feet would bring. Fälin would not admit it, but he had a lot of hope resting on his friend’s shoulders. There was no point in saving this city if the people did not survive.

No, the city could never even be considered saved without its people. The two were the same.

At long last, he turned his gaze to the people who remained at his side. Alistair, his brother and closest friend, looked grim. The expression did not suit the ex-Templar, he noted almost idly, but this was hardly the time for smiles. This was real; people were dead, and more would die very soon. There was no getting around that.

Beside Alistair stood Morrigan, the witch’s eerie, golden eyes seeming almost to gleam in the firelight. He trusted her, whether or not Alistair did, and so he trusted her to see him alive to the end of this. He did not know why she wanted their child, and the thought still sat uneasily in his gut, but he believed in her. That was enough. It had to be.

Zevran. The other elf was staring off into the distance, his impassive mask perfectly unreadable in the flickering light. Zevran was the reason he had to trust Morrigan; the reason he had to come back alive.

These three were his family, every bit as much as Shianni, Soris, and Cyrion. He had been unable to ask any of them to stay behind, even Alistair, because these were the people he wanted at his back above all else. Selfish? Yes, but he had always been a bit selfish.

“Let’s go,” was all Fälin said, turning Gryphon to point the stallion in towards the city. “There’s an archdemon waiting for us.”

As they began riding deeper into the city, their honour guard fell in around them. Ahead of them rode fifty of Eamon’s best, the heavy cavalry prepared to spear their way through whatever crossed their path. Behind them rode a dozen of the Circle’s best, handpicked by Morrigan herself, though the apostate had disdained at performing the task. He trusted them to be up to par when the moment came. Behind the mages marched fifty of Bhelen’s guard, beyond which a line of four golems brought up the rear. Around them loped no fewer than sixteen werewolves. Each group would have its representation, here at the end of it all.

To his left rode Zevran, the other elf keeping an arrow nocked, prepared to fire at the first sign of trouble. To his right was Alistair, the blond’s eyebrows furrowed as he watched the shadowed streets. At Gryphon’s knees trotted a shaggy wolf with Morrigan’s eerie eyes. They were as ready as they were going to be.

~

Bela wheeled, galloping away from the sight of their latest skirmish and carrying Solea to the group that had just broken through. All around her, her people fought blindly. No more strategy, no more scheming. No more anything. It was a straight-up fight to the death; kill or be killed.

It was almost over.

Her numbers and energy were failing, even as the tough woman leaned out of her saddle, her broadsword swinging erratically in one hand. By some twist of fate, she managed to pierce the arm of the hurlock that was attacking her. A quick nudge to Bela’s ribs sent the curly-haired mare to the right, dragging the blade out of the monster so she could swing it again. This time, her blade sliced its chest open, and a moment later fletching sprouted from its neck.

A glance back revealed Shianni, the spunky elf shooting her a quick thumbs up before drawing another arrow from her quiver. It was almost empty.

They had held on far longer than Solea would dared have hope when she had first seen the horde. Back then, as the front gates had been blown in by an incredible force of magic, she had barely been able to gather enough fighters to form a single unit, leading them back to the defensible marketplace by the skin of her teeth. Yet here they still were, holding on by a fingernail.

All around her, battles waged, and the unfortunate truth was that they were in the favour of the darkspawn, who were both greater in number and fresher than her troops. They were going to fall, and soon, but she was not about to let it happen easily.

“ _Caaaaptaaaaaiiiin!”_

Solea’s head snapped around, her gaze following to where a frantic elf was pointing. There, coming out of the alienage gates, which it seemed to have blasted open, was another one of…those _things_. It raised a staff, a rush of purple electricity suddenly washing over everyone around it. Not just a darkspawn boss, a _magical_ one.

“Jowan!” she shrieked, calling to the apostate who had led the felling of the previous one of these things.

The man’s head came up, his mouth thinning into a line as he saw the devastation it was wrecking on her forces, and shook his head. The mages were spent. In a far-cry from the emphatic rush they had entered in earlier, they were reduced to hurling fist-sized fireballs at anything that broke into the ring of defenders.

With no other choice, she booted Bela in the ribs, the sweat-lathered mare launching forward into a tired gallop, heading straight for the lieutenant, or whatever it was. Her mount had proven true thus far, facing the darkspawn with a steady heart, if nothing else, when instead her instinct had probably meant she wanted to flee. It was not to be so this time.

With a piercing whistle, Bela’s stout heart failed and the mare went up, forelegs pawing at the air in an action so abrupt, it sent them both plummeting. Reacting quickly, Solea kicked herself free of the horse and rolled, barely avoiding having half a tonne of horse land on top of her. With a squeal, Bela struggled to her feet and galloped off.

Climbing to her feet more slowly, Solea was relieved to realise that nothing had broken in her fall. At least, she did not think so; nothing critical. Given the amount of pain she was already in, it might not be possible to tell.

Hefting her two-handed blade, the brunette squared her shoulders and met the creature’s gaze. It was like looking death in the eye; it probably _was_ looking death in the eye. Behind her, the noise of battle seemed to fade as she walked into the fight. She did not know if she could win this, but if she died here, it was as good a way as any to go.

Without a word, Solea rocked back on one heel and launched herself at the monster, her blade swinging in a wide arch at its knees. With an almost lazy assurance, it blocked her with the staff it carried, the top of said staff already crackling with red energy.

Refusing to let it simply turn her into fried soldier, Solea launched into another swing, this was clipping at its elbow, then its knees, followed by a lightning-fast stab to the shoulder. Feeling the blade connect, she dug in, a fount of dark blood greeting her efforts, even as the now-dull staff smashed into her helmet, sending it crashing to the ground.

Disengaging, she dropped deftly, feeling the brunt of the staff whistle by overhead a split-second later. Never before had she been so glad to have decided to cut off her hair. She had once worn it long, but as a soldier, shorter was practical. Practical was good. Practical did not get in the eyes.

A spray of rancid air hit her face as Solea jolted back up, her blade sweeping in front of her. In response, the beast leaned its hips away, but its torso forward. The result brought their faces together, its breath leaving more than a little to be desired. It was far from enough to stop her. No way was she going down that easily.

~

The sounds of combat seemed to hit Fälin’s ears quite suddenly, along with the sudden, overpowering sense of _darkspawn_. They were ahead. People were ahead. Someone was fighting! Glancing to his brother, the redhead nodded once.

Turning to Zevran, he said, “Can you ride ahead? Try and see what’s happening.”

“Whatever you desire, my warden.” Following the smooth words, the blond elf trotted Black Warden up through Redcliffe’s knights, eventually disappearing as the soldiers pressed back in.

They were close to the market, he knew, and it would be possible to hold against a larger force. If anyone was still alive and fighting, they might just be there. He hoped they were there.

“If there’s fighting ahead,” he began, addressing his troops, “then we don’t have time to waste. The minute Zevran gets back, I want you all to be ready. We might just be charging into the thick of it.”

His words were greeted by some shuffling as those at the back drew their short horsebows or crossbows, while those at the front readied spears and swords. Behind him, he could practically feel the mages getting ready, the air almost seeming to thicken. Whatever they were casting, he hoped it was enough.

It was by chance that he caught a set of golden orbs watching him from atop a nearby building, and almost without thought, Fälin nodded. There was no point in holding the werewolves back, not now that it was coming to this.

The clattered of iron on stone drew his attention to Zevran’s return, the black stallion trotting over. A glance at Zev’s face was all that it took; they had found at least some of the horde.

“How bad?”

“It is not pretty, if that is what you ask. The humans, they are holding, but it will not be long before they are overrun. We need to move now if you wish to save them.”

Fälin nodded, giving the order to attack the moment they were in sight as he did so. Slowing his party of four with a gesture, they moved aside to allow the dwarves to pass. Dwarves could not charge far, but they were like short juggernauts of death on darkspawn when they did; he intended to use that.

After a moment’s debate, he signalled two of his golems to the front. He did not want to leave his flank, and the mages, completely exposed, but the creatures really were useful for breaking an enemy line. If they could lead the charge, then all the better.

The sound of combat was painfully obvious now, even to the humans. Beneath him, Fälin could feel Gryphon start to stiffen, the horse likely responding to his own readiness. Gathering his reins, he settled back as they made one final turn, placing them directly behind a flurry of attacking darkspawn.

“Well, this explains the quiet in the streets,” Alistair muttered grimly. “Good of them all to wait for us, though.”

Snorting dryly at his friend’s comment, the redhead shook his head. At least one of them still had _some_ humour.

“Go,” was all he said, drawing his longbow and releasing the arrow. Alongside him, Zevran did the same while Alistair drew his crossbow. The three of them kept their horses slow as they rode towards the gate, loosing arrows and bolts as quickly as they could. It was hard to fire a longbow from the back of a horse, forcing him to hold Gryphon to a slow walk, but the bows had more than enough range to make up for the distance they were losing.

Ahead of him, humans and dwarves surged forward. Beyond even them ran the golems. The massive creatures trampled anything small enough in their paths as they rushed for the overwhelmed gate.  There was an audible crunch as the battle was joined, the dwarves carving a niche for themselves quickly as the darkspawn were trapped between the two sides.

Magic burned a scythe into the enemies’ ranks as the mages joined the fight. With said backup firepower, they were able to cut their way into the marketplace.  The scene was chaotic. Harassed-looking humans and elves fought darkspawn in the streets. Ash and blood mixed on the paving stones, and buildings burned furiously, lighting the area with an eerie, smoky light.

In short, it was no better than the rest of the city.

With the way into the area opened, Fälin put up his bow and drew his blades. He tended to prefer keeping his distance when it came to fighting, but sometimes one did not have the luxury. Dropping his reins, he used his calves to steer Gryphon as he rode straight into the fray.

Gripping Fang tightly in his right hand, the elf lashed out with his left, Topsider’s Honour whistling through the air to pierce a hurlock’s shoulder. Drawing the sword back, he swung it horizontally, signalling the horse to bolt forward at the same time. The combined force was enough to take off the creature’s head.

Ignoring the fount of blood that sprayed over him and the stallion, Fälin pushed onwards, making for the ogre he had spotted some distance ahead. A harassed-looking mage and two humans were pathetically trying to fend it off, but having little success.

Galloping over, he swung the dun around, the horse’s shoulder colliding with the monster and sending it staggering. Without a pause, the humans threw themselves in, hamstringing the ogre to bring it down, before cutting its throat without any pause. With a nod, the elf turned and continued on.

They were managing. Dead made piles in the street, and severed limbs formed small lumps that ended in pools of cooling blood. The stench of blood, smoke, and excrement nearly overwhelmed even the reek of unwashed darkspawn bodies and sweaty humans. The slush in the streets was bloody, and Gryphon stumbled and slipped more than once as they fought their way further in.

Of course, Zevran rode faithfully at his side throughout the whole ordeal. The other elf provided a second set of eyes as they slashed their way through the creatures clogging the streets. Blessedly, Zev made no comment on their destination as they moved closer and closer to the fighting elves.

What they were doing here was pretty obvious, but what Fälin wanted to know was what had drawn them out of the alienage. What he also wanted to know was the status of his family. Shianni found him first.

“Cousin!”

Fälin’s heart could have stopped as his spunky cousin ran over to him. She was bloodied, a wide cut across her cheek pouring blood down over her jaw. The also seemed to be limping and her hair was flying wild and loose.

She was _alive_.

Swinging out of his saddle, the warden tossed his reins to Zevran and hurried over to her. He was so relieved to see her alive and as close to well as could be expected that he grabbed her in a tight hug, heedless of his own gory state.

When he finally let her go, the young woman fell back with a gasp and a chuckle, her smile genuine. “You made it! I mean, I never doubted you’d try, but…with everything that was happening, we thought we were goners for sure.”

“Everything…?” he frowned as a thought occurred to him. The city was a wreck, a barely-surviving band of fighters all that seemed to stand between the city and being totally overrun. What had happened to the city’s defences? “Shianni, what happened here?”

“What does it look like? The darkspawn just…showed up! Captain Solea gathered what she could and came here, then she asked us to help. We…couldn’t really say no. We’ve been fighting here all night.”

Wiping a tuft of ashes off of his cheek, the elf frowned to himself, shooting a glance back to see the expression mirrored on Zev’s face as he did so. “Shi…we sent word. Didn’t they tell you the darkspawn were coming?”

She shook her head. “No. Fay, I don’t think the humans knew, either.”

“Clearly, our message never made it, my dear.”

“Clearly,” Fälin agreed through gritted teeth. This just got worse and worse, didn’t it? Still, people were alive, and that was what mattered.

“Uncle Cyrion and Soris are okay.”

Trying to hide his relief, Fälin nodded. That was one more good thing, in a haze of bad.

“So, the citizens—they never made it out?”

Shianni shook her head. “A lot of the people fighting here _are_ civilians, Cousin. I don’t think anyone made it out.”

Gripping his sword tightly, the elf slammed its tip into the stones beneath his feet. “Maker’s breath,” he cursed, slamming Fang into its scabbard as he did so. “Take me to this Captain Solea.” He needed to talk to someone who knew something. As much as he loved Shianni, no elf was going to have all the facts. It was just how the status quo stood.

~

She was tired; her muscles felt like water. Still, Solea fought on. There was no way she was going to give up, though. There were people who needed her, and she would not fail them.

It barely registered when a huge, furry form crashed into the massive hurlock. Two more pounced a moment later, the bipedal animals tearing at the darkspawn leader’s armour and flesh. She was, quite suddenly, not sure which to be more afraid of.

One of the furry monsters was tossed aside, and she was given her first good look at one. It was dog-like, but far larger, and…

“Werewolves?” she breathed aloud. The beast’s golden eyes turned to her.

“Go,” it breathed, the animalistic jaw making it come out a half-growl, “we will handle this. Gather your people and protect them.” With that, the werewolf launched itself on a genlock that was sneaking up behind her, tearing its throat out deftly.

Solea’s knees felt weak. Who would have thought that a demon from rumours would appear and save her from another demon from stories? At least she had believed darkspawn existed, though. Werewolves…not so much.

They were not immortal, though. Right before her eyes, the hurlock leader set the fur of one beast alight, causing it to jump back with a yelp, rolling about on the paving stones to put out the fire. An ogre stepped on it.

It took her hazed mind a moment to register that said ogre was now standing over her. Jumping back, she stumbled clumsily in a pool of cold blood, eventually slipping and falling on her back. She barely managed to roll out of the way before its foot crashed down, obliterating the paving stone she had lain on a moment before. 

Gripping her blade, Solea shifted to her knees as quickly as she could, and was on her feet a moment later. Hefting her blade, she thrust it forward, eyes widening in shock as it pierced the flesh of the monster’s chest. For an instant, she was too surprised that she had hit it so easily to register that the beast was frozen stiff. When the realisation struck, however, she was even more surprised to see a mage standing not ten yards away. Not an apostate. A _mage_. Where had he come from?

The clatter of hooves suddenly struck her ears, the sound horribly out of place—especially given Bela’s untimely retreat. Unwittingly, her gaze shifted to their chokehold standpoint. Darkspawn still clogged it, but this time they were sandwiched between her own fighters and a pack of screaming dwarves. Fanning out over the area was a large band of horsemen, and even mages. The entire situation was surreal. Had the army really come? Had they really held on long enough for the army to come? It seemed impossible, but…

A sharp yelp drew her back to the grim reality of the situation. Army or no army, each and every one of them was still fighting for their lives. Their prospects seemed a whole lot better, though.

Turning back to the oversized emissary, Solea’s teeth ground down hard as she watched it fry another werewolf to cinders, the scent of burning fur suddenly choking out all else in the vicinity. Gagging a bit at the stench, the brunette still forced herself to heft her blade, eyes blazing through her exhaustion. Army or no army, they were still Denerim’s citizens, and they were going to fight for their city.

Charging back at the monster, she did not even make it a dozen strides when the sound of iron clanging against stone drew her up short. A moment later, a pale, golden horse galloped into sight, its rider hanging half out of the saddle as his blade swept at the hurlock. The creature dodged, swinging around to the front of the horse and stabbing at its chest.

There was a sharp screech as wood met metal, enticing the horse to rise up on its hind legs. From her position behind the creature, she was then able to get a good look at the emblem spread out on a rug over its rump: A marching, white griffon trimmed in blue.

Well, if a Grey Warden wanted to fight it then who was she to argue?

Deftly, the warden swung his horse wide of the emissary, giving the creature room to cast. Thinking that the man did not realise he was facing a magic-user, Solea cursed and rushed ahead once more, trying to both warn and protect her helper. Her actions were needless. Somehow, the hurlock’s spell dissipated, a fact that seemed to surprise it as much as she. The warden was not surprised.

With a deft hand, he hurled something at the beast, the jar’s contents exploding in a reeking acid that made the darkspawn cry out. Using the horse’s armoured hindquarters, the man brought the hurlock down, even as it was shrieking and clawing at its face.

Not waiting to see if the man really could take the emissary out himself, Solea rocked forward on her soles once more, before sprinting into the fray. Swinging out with her blade, she cut a gash through its armour, piercing the beast’s flesh from hip to just beneath its rips. At the peak of her swing, she shoved down and was rewarded with the sound of crunching bone.

The warden was not idle either. As Solea jumped back, he brought the horse back to its hind legs and sent the animal down onto the hurlock’s chest; once, twice, thrice…! Even as its ribcage gave in, the man reached down and slammed the tip of his blade into its throat.

“You know, when they told me a horse could be an even better weapon than I sword, I didn’t believe them.”

Solea’s eyebrows rose into her forehead at the carefree tone being offered to her from the Grey Warden. She had never even been close enough to see Ferelden’s last two wardens, but she certainly would not have pegged them for the ‘cheery-and-joke-during-battle’ types.

Glancing up, the brunette was rewarded with her first real glance at the person who had saved her. Her eyes widened. That resemblance to Cailan…

“Y-Your Majesty?” she choked out as it clicked just which warden had saved her. Somehow, she had just assumed that the commander had done so. What was the future king doing here? In battle? Risking his life? Everything she thought she knew about nobility flew out the window.

“Don’t start with that,” the blond man, Alistair, suddenly grumbled. “I’m not king yet, and until I am I’m a Grey Warden first. So long as there are darkspawn to kill, I’ll be here…killing…them.” With a resigned chuckle, the man shook his head. “Just me and Paladin here. Oh, and the army.”

Had she had the time and the energy, Solea might have been flummoxed by the man who would one day rule the country. As things were, she suddenly found that she just didn’t care. If he wanted to joke around, let him. So long as he kept killing darkspawn.

“I think there are a few left to kill,” was all she said, expression tight with stress and worry.

“Hm, yes, that’s true. Shall we?”

Unable to refuse, and suddenly not wanting to, Solea nodded. Finally she was able to pass the duty of defending this city to someone more qualified. She was pleased with her overall efforts, but she was so tired, and her defenders stretched so thin… Finally she would have some help.

As King Alistair turned his horse away, Solea fell in step next to the animal, her blade all but dragging on the ground as she walked. Around them the fighting was, for the first time in what felt like weeks, dying off. Small groups were still scuffling around them, but the addition of fresh mages and troops had been enough. Even outnumbered as they were, they were definitely winning.

A triage unit seemed to have set itself up in the centre, and wounded soldiers were already limping in, sometimes helping those who could not walk. There would be more than the mages could handle, but if they only focussed on the worst, she had hope that most of them could be saved. Already people were poking around, seeking the wounded. Her efforts, they really had not been in vain…

“You did all this? Organised the defences?”

At the king’s voice, Solea looked up. “Yes, Sire,” she responded tiredly.

“I’m not king yet; stop calling me that. And good. You…did well. Really well. I was afraid we would be too late to save anyone.”

“You almost were,” she told him honestly, exhaustion making her tongue bold, “but we’re a pretty tough lot.”

The king—she was not allowed to say it, but she would think it—offered her a wry smile. “I’ve noticed. My brother’s—uh, not Cailan, the other one—from Denerim. He’s stubborn as a mule, too.” Alistair chuckled. “And a good thing he is, too, because we might all be dead if not. Now let’s go, he’s probably pretty eager to meet you.”

She had half a dozen questions, none the least of which involved this mythical _other_ brother, but all she said was, “Yes, Ser.”

~

Fälin was tired. Not the bone-weariness that signified a desire to just drop and go to sleep on the spot, but the deep exhaustion that signified one too many weeks on the road, chasing an almost futile goal. He could still fight, though, and that was a good thing, because there was a lot of fighting to be done.

“When we’re done here,” he hissed to Zevran, who was sitting on Warden just to his left, the assassin’s eyes scanning the area for any immediate threats, “I’m sleeping for a week.”

“I trust this will be _after_ you ravish me in celebration, yes?”

“We’ll see.”

“You are a cruel man, my warden.”

“No, I’m a bloody tired one. So unless you wanna kill the archdemon while I start on that sleep now, I suggest you shut up.”

The blond blinked, clearly startled by the sudden venom in Fälin’s tone. “As you wish.”

Sighing, the redhead shook his head. “Sorry, Zev. I’m just…so fucking tired of this. I’d kill for a decent night’s sleep.”

“And so you shall…and you will have.”

Fälin snorted. “True.”

“If you need help sleeping,” Shianni chimed in, blessedly not perturbed by the blatant innuendo, “I bet Alarith could make you something.”

Fälin’s face darkened. “Let’s see if he’s even still alive before we start on those promises.”

The grim mood returned as the three elves made their rounds as quickly as possible. There were so many dead and dying. Who was to say who still lived and who did not? Eventually, they reached a band of dirty and bloodied elves who raised hand in greeting to Shianni.

“By Andraste, I don’t know how we survived that, but I’m glad to be alive!”

“You can thank Fay for that,” Shianni said firmly, flicking a hand back at the elf in question, who immediately shook his head.

“No, you kept yourselves alive. We just arrived in time to clean up the rest of the mess.” His expression tightened. _Barely_.

Much to his immense relief, a grey-haired elf stepped out from the back of the small group, the others making way quickly. “I don’t know how you did it, Son…but thank you.”

Swinging his right leg over Gryphon’s side, Fälin dropped lightly to the ground. “Dad, are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” the older man assured. “There are a lot who got it worse than I did.”

“Good… Where’s Soris?” he asked, worry creeping into his gut all over again. Would the stress of this night never end? Of course not.

“He went with Alarith to rig some traps. I haven’t seen him.” A general murmur from the growing crowd agreed with his father’s statement. Well, then he would just have to hope.

“My warden, I believe your brother warden is looking for you.”

Straining to see over the heads of some of the unusually tall elves, Fälin raised one hand in greeting at the sight of his best friend approaching on Paladin. At his side limped a very battered looking shem woman. Her short-cropped brown hair was plastered to her head from sweat and blood, making it little different from the rest of her.

Tossing his reins to Zevran, the elf wound his way through the bodies, both living and dead, to approach Alistair. “Who’s this?”

“Solea,” the woman immediately supplied, “Captain of the Third Unit in the Royal Guard.”

Quirking one eyebrow, Fälin shot Alistair a sidelong glance of warning as he asked, “Are you the one who organised these defences, _Ser_ Solea?”

“I-it’s Captain, Warden. And yes, I just did what I could.”

“Yes, I believe Ser Solea has done very well,” the future king confirmed, blessedly picking up on the unspoken hint.

The woman seemed to get it, too, as her eyes widened momentarily before a soldier’s mask slid back into place as she gave a half bow. “You are too kind.”

“Not for the woman who apparently saved half of this city. How much longer can you hold out?”

Solea blinked, her head tilting slightly as she apparently tried to process the question. Yes, she was tired.

“I-I…” she began weakly, before sighing, “not long. We’re exhausted, there aren’t enough of us left…if another wave comes, it’ll overwhelm us in no time.”

“I—”

A fell swoop of powerful wings, along with a spark of _awareness_ that seemed to pulse to his toes, drew Fälin’s gaze skyward. There it was. The huge, black-and-red beast seemed to obscure the burning sky with its wings, a stream of fire so hot it burned blue searing from its maw to incinerate part of the marketplace wall. And then it shook its head, fire streaming off-course, as though in pain.

If he had not been sure before, the way the beast keeled in the sky, wings folding to drop it enough to ram into the side of an unusually tall building, he was now. It was in pain, but what was causing the dragon’s erratic flight was not immediately apparent. A moment later, it was.

A tiny figure came into view as the dragon swerved in midair, its side suddenly exposed to their sight as if fought for altitude. The blaze of the fires below caught on Riordan’s sword as the Grey Warden slammed it into the dragon’s side. With a bellow, the creature convulsed and dropped again, dislodging both warden and sword to fly free in the air.

Fälin held his breath as the bearded man free-fell for a moment, before slamming his blade into the monster’s wing. The thin membrane did not hold, however, and in a spray of tissue and blood, the steel ripped free.

“ ** _Riordaaaaan_**!” It was out of his mouth before he even registered opening it. Steel eyes still glued on the sky, he felt his palms begin to itch in his archery gloves even as his breathing speed up. Riordan was gone. There was only…

“…he’s gone. Just like all the others, he’s…”

Ignoring Alistair’s mumbling, the city elf lashed out with his foot, the toe catching hard on a discarded helmet and shooting it flying into the distance. “ _Shit_!”

“Warden…”

“Not now, Zev,” he snarled, his mind already turning out how many ways this could get worse. The dragon, he noted dimly, had made it to Fort Drakon. That was one thing, at least, for it seemed Riordan had more-or-less grounded it. However, the level of importance of their arrival there had just risen to impertinence. He had no time to redistribute troops, or even to fix the situation here. They had to go.

 “Fuck,” he growled, looking around for something else to lash out at, even as a gloved hand landed on his arm.

“Fay, throwing a tantrum is not going to help, now is it?”

Glancing back at his father, who at some point had moved in beside him, the redhead finally conceded with a nod. Yes, no matter how badly things were going, they _could_ be worse. Taking a deep breath, he finally let out a shuddering breath.

“You’re right. Stay safe, Dad. Protect him, Shi,” he muttered, before grabbing Gryphon’s reins and hauling himself into the saddle. He needed to be the leader here, not a temperamental brat.

“I want the dwarves to stay here to bolster the defences!” he yelled out, drawing the attention of those nearby. “Keep the golems and try to do something about blocking that hole in the wall! You’re under the command of Ser Solea until this is over, remember that!

“I know it won’t be easy, but try and retreat to the main gates if you feel confident enough,” he continued, shifting to address Solea directly. “The main bulk of the dwarven army is there, and they can hopefully get you out of the city alive. Right now, saving as many as you can needs to be your main goal. This city can’t stand again without its lifeblood.”

“Guess it’s just us now, huh Fay?” Alistair’s words brought to the forefront of Fälin’s mind an issue he had been struggling long and hard with, even before he had seen this mess. Riordan’s recent demise only served to press the issue home harder. “I guess the odds aren’t any worse than they were before though, right? Just the two of us against the whole Blight.—erm, minus the armies, I mean.”

Yes, there was only two of them left. Only two, and…they had to split up.

“You need to go back to the gate, Al,” he muttered.

“What?” the blond’s voice hardened slightly, to the same tone he had used when he had demanded his brother’s throne be turned over to him and Anora imprisoned. “I can almost swear you just told me to leave.”

“That’s exactly what I said,” he grumbled, tired of everything, but most of all of being questioned.

“Wha—but _why_? By the Maker, Fay! You _need_ me!”

“No, Alistair. _Ferelden_ needs you. If I die trying to reach that thing, you’re the last hope this country has! We have to split up! We can’t risk both of us falling together!”

The blond’s eyes narrowed. “So, you’re just going to tell me I can’t be there to watch your back? Our odds are better together, Fay! They always have been!”

Taking a deep breath, Fälin forced his temper back under a very tight and strained rein. “Alistair, you put me in unilateral control of this army until the time that the archdemon is slain, correct?”

Suddenly wary, the blond human nodded slowly. “…I guess I did.”

“I order you to go and oversee the efforts at the gates.”

“You’re being ridic—”

“—that’s an order, soldier! Go!”

Back stiff, Alistair turned without a word and rode off.

“Braska!” he all but shouted, summoning the werewolf to his side, “follow him. Make sure he’s safe.”

With a nod, the creature turned and loped off, his passage causing more than a few tired troops to jump back.

Not looking at Zevran, Fälin reached back with his free hand until he felt the assassin’s palm press into his own. He hated this; hated all of it. To make matters worse, he had just sent his best friend away in a bad temper. If one of them did not make it, then this would always be how they parted.

“Did I do that to him, Zev?” he asked, voice low for only the Antivan’s ears.

The response was a long time coming, but finally, “ _Perhaps_ he could have done without hearing that everyone is out for himself. However, it was a simple truth, and you have made him better for it. He will make a better king.”

Not bothering to respond, the redhead waved his troops over. “Form up! We’re going to Fort Drakon on the double! Move!”

Pressing their stallions close together, Fälin stayed as close to Zevran as he could as their troops formed up around them. As the mages were forming up behind them, a limping, bloodied, robed figure dragged himself over to them, quickly drawing the elves’ attention.

“Sers!”

Fälin’s eyes widened as he recognised the face, even beneath a mask of blood. “Jowan?” Without even thinking, he reached into his saddlebags for a lyrium potion and handed it the exhausted man. “What…?”

“I promised, didn’t I?” the apostate asked with a tight smile. “I told you that if you let me go, I’d find a way to help. Here I am.”

Leaning down in the saddle, the elf clasped the human on the shoulder. “Thank you. Really. You’ve saved a lot of lives here.” Dropping his voice, he continued, “Keep an eye on my family and I’ll get you out of the city once this is over.”

Jowan’s face relaxed a bit as he nodded. “Guess I better get to work then.”

Reaching back into his saddlebags, Fälin rustled around until he could grasp the bag containing their group’s lyrium potions. Depositing a good number in with their health poultices, for Morrigan, he then handed the bag to Jowan.

“Help them.”

With a nod, the apostate jogged off. That, at least, was one thing going right.

“Shi, Solea,” he said, turning to the two women who were the heroes of the moment, at least in his eyes, “just…get to safety and keep them alive. And Dad,” he glanced back at Cyrion, “I’ll be back.”

Turning to face ahead, he gave a single nod, signalling the group to head out at a fast trot. Zevran still clung to his side, and Morrigan swooped in from somewhere. She had avoided fighting thus far, but he trusted her to be there when she was needed.

He did not look back. Not at the apostate who had saved these people in repayment for an unsettled debt.

Not at his cousin and people, who had rallied to help the shems when the times had cried for racial slurs to vanish.

Not at the woman whom he had promoted just minutes before; the woman who would probably be dead in a week from the taint anyway.

Not even at his own father.

He looked forward, towards the archdemon he had to kill. Around them, flecks of pure white joined the ashes falling from the sky. It had begun to snow.

 


	3. Ash

Wynne had never much cared for riding, but there was no denying the necessity now. The pretty ,slate-grey mare she rode was placid enough, at least. A disadvantage, in some ways, but the presence of the other horses kept Mana from turning tail and running. It also helped that they were not expected on the front lines.

Riding bundled in the middle of the group kept her from seeing what was happening in too much detail, but the elder woman was still fully aware of the chaos that surrounded their every stride further into the city. It was an ugly, brutal battle that preceded them, but they persevered.

Wynne was kept on her toes, knitting bones and flesh together, cleansing poisons, and occasionally frying an ogre that got too close. It was hard work, but looking around them as they rode on, she could hardly complain. Not two feet to her left, a hand rested on the cobblestones—a _small_ hand. Half a dead cat was lying a short distance back, and she thought she saw most of a man caught under a collapsed door to her right.

It just fuelled her on to try harder. Fälin’s plan was to save as many as they could, and she could respect that, at the very least, even if she did not agree with all of his methods. He had really come into his own in the months since she had first met the bratty little spitfire of an elf. He might be far from perfect, but in this, at least, his heart was in the right place.

They all wanted to save Denerim.

The ride through the streets was hard and brutal, draining her reserves time and time again, and subsequently trying her supply of lyrium potions. They were surviving, though, and in response the darkspawn were fleeing.

Teagan directed the troops through the streets, taking advantage of any alleys and rubble that they found. Their efforts to close off escape routes began to pay off as the enemy was funnelled to its destination deep within the city.

And then they were there. The street opened up into a massive square, the centre of which was empty save for what looked to be wood; wood slicked with… _oil_. Atop it were darkspawn. The forces of cavalry in the streets had been enough to drive them ahead, it seemed, forcing the creatures to flee the only way they could. Behind her, dozens of fires burned, symbolising regions were darkspawn had not been permitted to retreat.

And retreat they had not. Thousands of the things filled the clearing. Some charged at the barriers the previous group had erected, while others whirled to attack the hundreds and hundreds of humans and werewolves who blocked the three key funnel points.

Whenever that happened, the leaders backed off, forcing smaller-party confrontations that were compounded in the allies’ favour through the use of alleys and the spaces between houses. Any darkspawn who tried to move down the streets found itself assaulted on three sides.

That was also how they hounded the beasts into the main square. With armed forces all but bursting down the side streets, the monsters were only too happy to race past, joining others of their brethren in the open area. The other open streets might have looked like tempting escape routes, only for the darkspawn to realise that they were just as much a deathtrap as anything else.

Say what one would about darkspawn, they were not completely foolhardy in their struggle for their meager existences. The creatures seemed to know that _something_ was going to happen, but they did not possess the required foresight to be able to predict what that might be. They were typically reactive creatures, and it was because of that that this plan was even working. They reacted in much the way the elven commander had predicted they would.

Which had led them all here. There were forces stationed in the buildings around them, and it was only a matter of time…

Until the hammer fell.

~

Leliana had a momentous task before her, and she knew it. She also knew that Fälin was relying on her, and that this was…this was her chance to put her skills to use for the betterment of others. That was what she did.

One person alone could slip around a war-infested city better than any large party, and a bard could outdo any in that respect also. She would bet her skills against any Crow, too—that was not boasting, but the simple truth. She was a spy.

No, she _had_ been a spy. If those skills could serve people now, however, then she would use them.

She blended into the darkness, slipping in and out of buildings on silent feet, looking and listening for any sign of life. She found more darkspawn than anything, but those were easily taken care of. Zevran had taught her a few tricks with throwing knives and poison that proved invaluable, and she used them all now.

They worked, and slowly but surely, she found people. Here, a child crouching in a closet, there a man pinned under a collapsed wall, and then an entire family hiding in their basement. Twice, she had to dive out of the way as a unit of cavalry charged by, pursuing darkspawn, and on another occasion she slipped into a warehouse only to find the building filled to bursting with horsemen, waiting to ambush a large force being harried towards them.

Such instances made travel dangerous, because who was to say that her own side would not mistake her for the enemy, but what worked on darkspawn also worked on humans. They never even glimpsed her.

It was not until she happened upon a little boy, frantically trying to drag his injured mother, that she was forced out into the open. There, above the duo, was a shriek. Its horrific voice pierced the air, prompting a terrified scream out of the boy as it bore down on them, and without thinking, Leliana moved.

Forgoing her bow in favour of her daggers, she whipped the knives from their sheaths and leapt at the monster. Its screech nearly made her stop, wanting nothing more than to cover her ears, but the redheaded bard knew that if she hesitated, they too would die. So, she did not.

Her shoulder collided with the thing, sending them both to the ground. The shriek’s skin was coarse and rough, like granite, and it bit at her skin where it was unfortunate enough to touch the thing. Leliana did not let that slow her, however, as she hurriedly swung her legs to the side, using them as a weight to roll off the beast.

Once she was on her knees, the Leliana slammed one of her blades into the shriek’s body. Its thick, tough hide was not easy to pierce, but she did so anyway and was greeted with a spurt of blood that was just a bit too dark.

It was hardly dead, and the whip like motion it used to stand almost threw her to her back. Catching her balance, Leliana danced back a step, her right hand dropping her blade to release a thin-bladed throwing knife that she yanked from her gauntlet. It took the creature in the mouth, silencing it long enough for her to slam her off-hand dagger into its neck.

Knowing that shrieks always travelled in packs, Leliana dropped to her knees beside the boy. Taking his shoulders gently in her hands, she tried for a winning smile—that was probably not all that winning, given the blood caking her face.

“Can you find your way to the city gates?” she asked gently. Before her, the boy flinched, chancing a glance at the badly-wounded woman at their feet. She nodded, and then so did the boy. “Look, your mama’s going to stay and help me then, okay? I need you to run for the gates. There are nice people there who will help you.”

“B-but…”

“It’s okay. My friends and I have cleared out all the bad guys back there. All you have to do is run. If you see anyone on a horse, it’s okay because they’re all friends, too. Let them help you.”

“…Mommy?”

The woman choked. “Go, Jude. Mommy will catch up after…after she helps…our friends.”

Slowly, the little boy nodded once more and, after grabbing his mother in a tight hug, turned and sprinted away. _Maker, shield him and help him find his way_.

Once the boy was gone, brown eyes turned to Leliana. “Take…take care of him?”

She nodded sadly. “I’ll do anything I can.”

“…the army came, then? Too late…” Her eyes were unfocussed, but Leliana held the woman’s gaze anyway.

“It’s never too late so long as one person is alive. We haven’t lost yet.”

“I…hope.”

“I _know_.”Squeezing her eyes shut, Leliana held the woman’s hand tightly. “May the Maker watch over you.”

Standing, she retrieved her dropped dagger, wiping it hurriedly she sheathed it. “There…will be more.”

“Do…do it.”

Nodding, the former bard slammed her left blade through the woman’s chest and then, without looking back, turned and raced away; she could not save them all.

Behind her, the telltale cries of more shrieks sounded, but she was already gone.

~

Alistair was furious. It was not eve so much that Fälin had sent him away as it was the way the elf had done it. He knew full well that the redhead could be stubborn and downright rude, but never before had he had that knife-sharp tongue turned on him like that. It had…hurt, if he were to be completely honest.

They were supposed to be together in this, just the two of them against the Blight. This had been their fight since Ostagar, and being sent away, here at the end of it all? He could not imagine a more degrading punishment.

He knew Fay did not mean it to be a punishment, in fact the elf’s reasoning was sound, but that was what it felt like. To let Fälin go out there alone, too, was…not easy. The other warden had taken him aside, explained what Morrigan was offering, and had asked his opinion on it, but that was far from enough to put the blond’s mind at ease. What if Morrigan lied? What if Fay died anyway?

Would this always be how they parted? Would he never even get the chance to take that blow for his friend? It was a painful thought.

Paladin picked his way carefully over the carnage that stained the streets, and it was good he did, because Alistair was not all there. He knew he should be paying more attention, but he was so lost in his own thoughts that he also did not really care. That werewolf that Fälin had sent with him would just have to do his job.

No, that was neither true nor fair. Forcing himself out of his brooding mindset, the blond brought himself back to the present, attention wholly on his surroundings.

The city stood. There were pieces of masonry, collapsed walls, burning trees and buildings, wrecked wagons and carts, bodies, blood and gore, scattered belongings, and numerous other clutter in the streets, but the city stood.

Overall, Alistair felt a swell of pride in these, his people, and all they had done to get this far. Finding a final hold-out of survivors had been the best moment of this entire mess called the Blight. It had been even better than reuniting Connor and Isolde with Eamon had been, and that was saying a lot. The knowledge that there was one group of survivors also meant that there might be more.

Maker send that Leliana found some.

The trip to the gates was altogether uneventful. The streets were almost eerily silent after the long hours of combat, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck prick up. Despite the feeling, he made it safely, emerging upon a scene of frantic activity and carnage.

Despite the fact that the dwarves were not involved in direct combat at the moment, there was still more than enough for them to do. The wounded outnumbered the unharmed, though of the former most were at least somewhat functional, and they all needed help.

Everywhere were dwarves and golems searching through the rubble, seeking any who might yet still live. It was clear that the numbers found were tapering off, yet still many dwarves toiled on, likely seeking some friend or another who was not yet accounted for.

In the heart of the chaos, a makeshift triage unit was bustling with activity. A few mages had remained behind to tend the wounded, and the two men and one woman were clearly being run off their feet, struggling to save any they could. At least these people had the option, for now.

Further back, a solid wall of golems blocked the gates. The gatehouses had been utterly destroyed in the fighting, and at least one of the massive gates had been blasted clean off its hinges, and thus it was left to the stone giants to ensure the safety of everyone inside.

Never mind the _other_ two holes in the wall.

“Alistair? What in a soddin’ nug’s hairy ass are _you_ doin’ here?”

“It’s wonderful to see you too, Oghren,” he replied with a fake grin. “For once I think I might smell worse than you.”

That prompted a gruff snort. “You’re all right, for a human. But really, aren’t you supposed to be chasin’ that thing down an’ cuttin’ off its head with the elf?”

“Elf? Well, I don’t suppose Zevran really cares if I go with them or not, but maybe I should’ve asked.” Because joking was so much easier than facing the reality of the betrayal he had been faced with.

“Ah, sod it. If you’re here for somethin’, then go do it.”

Turning Paladin away from Oghren, he almost rode straight into Sten. The qunari only looked at the blond for a long moment before turning and walking away. He would never understand the man, of that Alistair was certain.

…though he was pretty sure Sten was unimpressed with him. What was he to do, though? Go gallop off and order the others to let him help?

Okay, technically he _could_ do that, but the reality was…he knew Fälin was right.

Sod it—Oghren was _right_.

It took only a few more minutes to find Bhelen, who had set himself up near the gates and was going over details with a few of his officers and lords. Dismounting, he strode over to the king and nodded. “How are things over here?”

“Oh…Alistair.” There was no denying that the dwarf was not pleased to see him. “Nothing amiss here. You didn’t need to come back.”

“Fälin…thought it would be best if we split up, and I agree. We’re the only two who can sense the darkspawn, so if a large force comes for the gates, I can warn you.” An effective lie, if ever he had told one.

“I see. Well, since you’re here…”

They spent a long time reviewing maps of the city, Bhelen pointing out how far his bands had pushed into various parts of the city, flushing out darkspawn and even wrangling a few survivors, which were also fed by Leliana’s efforts. They had done impressive work, Alistair had to admit, and he once again found himself feeling useless.

He was king now…so why was there not more he could _do_?

Their meeting was interrupted by a loud shout from some of the dwarves. Rousing himself from the maps, Alistair swung himself back into his saddle, using the added height to gain a better look at what was coming.

It was Solea and the others. Somehow, the resistance had managed to band together, collect their wounded, and were almost painfully making their way here. Raising one hand, he greeted Fälin’s cousin with a nod.

“You know them?”

Glancing down at Bhelen, he nodded. “They were fighting in the marketplace.”

“I see. So a few thousand humans and elves are about to be dumped on my medics, and you did not see fit to warn me of this? It would have been appreciated, _King_ Alistair.” There was no denying the bite in the dwarf’s tone.

“I didn’t know they were coming _here_. I thought they would…stay there!”

“They are _your_ soldiers, are they not? I suggest being more aware of their movements in the future.” With that, the dwarven lord turned and began barking orders for his own troops to help the newcomers.

Maybe Bhelen was right, but Alistair did not like the tone the other man had taken with him. With the chaos of the night, it was impossible to know how everything was going to turn out. Still, there were more important things to see to then arguing with an ally.

Riding over to the exhausted survivors, he swung out of his saddle and offered his shoulder to an exhausted Solea.  The brunet woman’s eyes were clouded with fatigue, and she seemed barely able to hold herself upright any longer. None of her band looked much better.

For the first time, he was getting a good look at those who had come together and lived. There were _children_ in the group, and he felt his heart twist as he noticed how many of them were nursing injuries of their own.

“…if only we had come sooner.”

“That would have been appreciated…Your Majesty.”

He sighed. “Solea…”

“No, you’re the king. You’re _their_ king. Be their king.”

He paused, glancing at the, he noticed, wearied eyes that were gazing at him from bloodied faces and slouching bodies. “King of the almost-dead, that’s me,” he joked.

“…respect would not unreasonable.”

He cleared his throat. “Uh, right…of course.” Maker, this was what it meant to be king, huh? “You all…” he paused, raising his voice. “You all did superbly, and I couldn’t be more proud to call you my subjects. Thank you—” he froze up, surprised to find that he was literally choking up “—thank you for saving my city. Your cit— _our_ city.” His words were not loud, but those in the front turned to pass them to those at the back, the quick speech passing through the large gathering in a shockingly short span of time.

From the middle of the gathering, a lone man’s voice rose, “Great. I could really use a drink, now!”

The chuckles the words were received with were weak, the sounds of people half-mad with fear and exhaustion, but they were there. They would survive. Denerim’s people were stubborn. His people were stubborn.

Dwarves, humans, and elves all mingled, helping one another as best they could. Honestly, Alistair was all for moving them out of the city entirely, but he listened to the advice of Oghren and stayed within the walls. Outside, they would be sitting ducks to any band who wanted to come at them, and so as gruesome as the state of the city was, they were safer inside until the rest of the army came back.

The blond made several rounds, checking in with the people as he did so, and it was on one such trip that a voice hailed him, “Alistair, is that really you?”

“…Goldanna,” he stated flatly. He was happy to see his sister alive, he really was, but he could not shake the bad taste her presence also left in his mouth. That day had been such a huge turning point in his life, and while he was grateful to Fay for helping him see the truth of her actions. She did not care about him.

“Listen, Alistair—”

He held up a hand, cutting her off. “You made your stance on our relationship clear before. As king, I can and will see that you and your family are cared for, but honestly, Goldanna, I’m not sure I can offer you more.” Not that there was much more _too_ offer her. She was getting what she wanted.

“It’s not…that.”

“Then what is it?”

“My…my son, Kalian, he’s missing.”

Suddenly, the bright look in her eyes took on a new meaning, as did the trembling hunch of her shoulders. Here was not a woman intent on trying to swindle her royal-brother, but rather woman fearful for the life of her child.

“…come with me. I’ll see what I can find out.”

And so he did. The boy would not be found until long after daylight had crept over the city…and by then, it was too late.

~

Fire. The whole world was fire. Raining down from above, licking up from below, flesh burned and scorched, the air was rank…

Battle, Wynne decided, was not something she enjoyed. The relatively minor scuffles she had experienced between small groups were nothing compared to this; the _Circle_ had been nothing compared to this. Even Ostagar had not been so bad. Carnage, death, destruction…it was _everywhere_ , and she was right there in the middle of it all.

Racing Mana back and forth, the older woman stretched the limits of her reserves. All around her, mages and emissaries exchanged blows, magic making the very air seem to crackle and swelter; even the snow was falling as wet drops instead of flakes.

Here, one of Eamon’s archers erupted in a fount of blood, and there a darkspawn fell screeching to its unknown gods. The fighting was thick and brutal on the perimeter, the monsters trying to escape the blaze that had been lit under their feet by men and women of the Circle. The lines held, however, and the streets the darkspawn escaped into became deathtraps that they did not escape from.

From atop the buildings, death rained into the centre of the enemy, further disorienting and confusing them. They had nowhere to go, and they were starting to realise that. Had their opponents been anything other than darkspawn, Wynne might have felt pity, or even been willing to accept surrender—even were the others not—but as things were, she was all for following Fälin’s orders.

Some of the city would burn here; there was no way of controlling the blazes that had sprung up all around them. It was a small price to pay for their victory, however, because this Blight could not be allowed to spread any further than it already had.

All of the darkspawn would die here.

It felt like an eternity before the fighting began to die off. The main bulk of the horde had broken and scattered, and the dead far outnumbered the living. Further out in the city streets, sounds of combat rang as horsemen charged down individuals who had broken through the barriers, but for the most part, it was clear things were over.

Around her, mages dealt with innumerable injuries and frantically struggled, with the help of those less-injured, to stop the entire city from going up in flames. Blessedly, much of Denerim was stone, so that was not a futile task.

A soft whine at her ankles drew Wynne’s attention. Glancing down at the ridiculously-named mabari, Sausage, the older mage smiled gently. “You wish to find him, do you not?” A soft whine. “Very well, but travel safely, my friend. He would not think highly of me if I allowed you to run to your death.”

With a happy bark, the dog turned and ran off through the smoke. If anyone could find the wardens in this, it was that dog.

~

Zevran could practically feel the tension radiating off of the other elf. Fälin was trying to hide it, but to his experienced eye, it was obvious that the redhead’s jaw was too tense and his hands shaky as he drew his bow. He did not comment on it, but he also did not allow battle to draw him from his lover’s side. Sometimes, support was best offered through silence.

Much of the area they traversed had yet to be swept, and that meant that they fought for every inch of ground. It was not as bad as it might have been, however, a clear indication that the harrying crews were doing their job by drawing away some of the enemy. In fact, things did not truly get bad until they hit the palace district.

The ambush had been waiting for them, Zevran was convinced of that, and just what that meant he did not want to contemplate. It was clear, though, that some darkspawn were quite a bit…more intelligent than others. He did not bring up his observation; Fälin had enough to deal with.

Traps or no traps, they fought their way through with a fierce vigour that could only come from the sight of the light at the end of the tunnel. This was almost over, and there was not a member of their band who did not see it, too. They numbered barely a hundred, but they would take on any and all comers.

Zevran was more than happy to let them. He loved a good battle, but this throwing oneself into a horde of enemies was not his style, exactly; darkness and stealth were, not frontal confrontations. So he stayed back, shooting arrows with Fälin and generally just keeping an eye on his warden.

He knew sending Alistair away had not been easy for the other elf, but Fay was sucking it up and keeping his mind on the task at hand, at least. It was for the best, and while Zevran did not like that Fälin had to do that—really, Alistair should have been more reasonable—he was glad the man was. He also did not like that he _cared_ so much, but that was an issue for another day.

With the werewolves clearing the way ahead of them, they rode up the steps, Warden and Gryphon carefully picking their way up the steps with a skill most horses did not have. It was here that Eamon’s knights and the mages were forced to dismount, making the way up the stairs on foot and leaving their mounts behind.

The entrance to Fort Drakon was worse than anything they had seen thus far, and suddenly they were all fighting not to get through, but to survive. A steady stream of darkspawn was charging from the building’s gates, and above them circled a dragon thrall. At Fälin’s barked orders, the troops spread out, hacking their way forward and forcing a way past the enemy lines.

With the others occupied, Fälin brought the dragon thrall crashing to the ground with several arrows through its wing, and then the two elves all but pounced on it, hacking away at the scaly hide with daggers and swords. It did not die easily, but they were well practiced in supporting one another, and it did go down. It, and everything else in the area.

“It’s now or never,” Fälin finally said quietly, eyeing the half-open doors to Fort Drakon. The darkspawn had finally stopped pouring out of them, but there could be no doubt that the interior was still packed with the creatures. They would have to cut their way through to even earn the right to challenge the archdemon.

“Indeed it is, my warden,” Zevran agreed.

“Too bad we couldn’t just…challenge it to duel, or something.”

“I do not believe the darkspawn are willing to fight fair.”

“No? Guess I won’t either, then,” the redhead muttered, adjusting one of his bracers almost anxiously. “I have an assassin, after all. Think you could…assassinate the archdemon for me?” Fälin was overcompensating, that much was obvious.

Pulling himself away from their quiet conversation for a moment, the blond elf glanced about. Around them, the others were gearing up for the march through the fortress, none close enough to overhear. Even Morrigan was pointedly ignoring them.

Satisfied that they had their privacy, Zevran reached out with one hand, pressing it against Fälin’s chest. He could not feel anything through the thick drakescale the other man wore, but he knew that under his palm, Fälin’s heart was likely racing. “Are you ready for this?” He knew that his partner’s mother had been killed inside Fort Drakon, while Fälin had been in the same room, and that the nightmare still sometimes haunted the other. He had not been back since that day, years before.

Truthfully, the biggest battle of the night for Fälin might be re-entering this very building.

“No, but crying over that fact isn’t gonna change anything, so let’s just get it over with.” Zevran did not say anything, merely looked, and after a moment Fälin sighed. “Look, she’s dead. I get it. Nothin’ I can do about it now, so I’m just gonna get over it and go kill that thing. So c’mon.”

“My warden.”

Fälin, who had already started walking away, turned back for a moment, a cold twist to his lips. “Don’t, Zev. I don’t want your pity any more than you want mine. Let’s just go.”

“Very well. We shall slay this thing and prove that we are the finest elves in Thedas, yes?”

“Only if I get to ravish you after.”

“On top of the fortress? Truly? The scandal!”

“Mm, I dunno about _that_. Maybe if you’re good.”

The smile on Fälin’s lips was a little less forced, and he no longer looked ready to sick up. That was enough, for now. “Then I shall strive to be the very best.”

“Then maybe I’ll have to ravish you _twice_.”

It was not much, but Fälin was chuckling as they walked into the building.

~

It had taken every bit of Fälin’s willpower to control himself as he entered Fort Drakon, but he had managed. It was not so bad, really, because hacking his way through darkspawn was distracting enough for anyone. To make matters better, Sausage had joined them not long after they had entered the building, rounding their group out to four—soldiers aside—and putting Fälin’s mind at least somewhat at ease.

The entire first floor had been empty, allowing for their easy accent to the second, and from there on out, it was much like it had been every _other_ time they had travelled through tight spaces overflowing with darkspawn. He had ordered the soldiers to spread out and clean out what they could, and then take other routes to the roof, leaving him with just his immediate friends and a token group of werewolves.

He made use of them, letting the bipedal wolves rush ahead and rout what they could while his group took up its normal formation.—well, almost normal. Instead of rushing ahead with Sausage, Zevran refused to leave his side. Well, Fälin could not say he minded, really. The other elf’s support was welcome, even if he would never say that.

Because being in here was…hard.

At one point on their journey, they stumbled across the holding cells. Without a word, he turned and ran out. Not dignified, exactly, but he did not owe anyone an explanation. The one person who he cared to let in on that part of his life already knew. Let that be the end of it.

The biggest surprise was finding Sandal inside the building. The dwarf was surrounded by dead and dying darkspawn, and no amount of prodding could get him to answer Fälin’s questions—of which there were many. In the end, the elf gave up and signalled for them to move out. They needed to hurry if they were to beat the others to the roof.

The climb through the tower did not get easier, but it was still passable. By the time they halted, at the foot to the staircase that would release them onto the roof, Fälin was more than ready to be done with this. He was tired in every way a person _could_ be tired, and still they wanted him more from him. Well, so be it, then. He would fight for them…one. more. time.

“Everyone ready?” he asked, eyes slowly roving over his friends.

“As ready as I shall every be, to be sure. ‘Twill be a difficult battle, I suspect, but no worse than the last obnoxiously large dragon you decided to challenge.” No, Fälin was reasonably certain this would be worse. He did not say that, however, because they all needed to keep their spirits up.

With an enthusiastic bark, Sausage launched himself at the elf, only to be stopped by Zevran, who caught the animal by his collar. “That is enough of that, my furry friend. You may only kiss him once I have had my turn.”

Outright snorting at that, Fälin slipped past the dog and met his lover’s eyes. “Is that so.”

“It is indeed, my warden. I have no wish to kiss lips covered in dog slobber, as fine as our mabari friend may be.”

An inexplicable tightness suddenly took the redhead’s throat, prompting him to swallow hard. “Zev…”

“Ah, let us not get sentimental, hm? We will return in time for breakfast!” Fälin laughed at that; somewhere under the smoky clouds, snow, and ash, dawn was likely long past. “So let us go and take care of what is long overdue.”

“Okay,” he agreed, nodding. “But I have things to do to you when we’ve won, so don’t you dare die on me up there.”

“So long as you return the favour, I can hardly say no to that command.” Zevran was smiling easily enough, but Fälin knew enough to see the worry in the other’s eyes. They were all scared, it was as simple as that.

“Good.” Leaning in, he tangled his fingers in that familiar hair. It was bloodied, some of which was Zevran’s own, and soaked in sweat caused by both exertion and the sweltering heat that seemed to radiate from the very stone of Fort Drakon. Still Fälin clung to it like his life depended on it as he slammed their lips together.

They kissed like it was the last time they would ever taste one another. There was no holding back, even as Zevran’s fingers tangled into his own auburn locks. There was a very real chance one of them would fall in the next battle, and they both knew it. He had told Zevran about Morrigan’s promise, but that in no-way guaranteed anything. There were more ways to die than archdemon-soul-battle.

For once, Morrigan did not comment—or maybe she did and he just refused to hear it—but eventually they were forced apart by the need for air. Pressing his forehead to Zevran’s, Fälin squeezed the back of the assassin’s neck with one hand. “I love you, so don’t you dare die on me.”

“Our agreement stands as-is, yes? Then let us both go and not die.”

Letting a real guffaw escape his lungs, Fälin straightened. Retrieving his helmet from where he had dropped it, he slammed it on his head. “Let’s g—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Sausage leapt on him, tongue scraping across his face wetly. Sputtering, he managed to get free of the dog, only to laugh.

“Okay, _now_ let’s go.”

The door opened to reveal a scene from the Black City itself. They were not the first group to arrive, and everywhere men and werewolves were struggling to bring down the massive dragon, but their efforts were like flies trying to attack a flame.

Arrows and magic flew at the beast, and it barely seemed to notice the interference. No, in fact the dragon was staring right at their party—and Fälin could do naught but stare right back. This was it; this was the moment he had been waiting for for…far too long. This was the moment where he could end this and finally— _finally_ rest.

Baring his teeth, the elf rushed in. He dimly heard Zevran calling for him, but he did not care, not this time. This time, he was going to kill this thing. He was the only one who could.

Zevran caught his arm before he had covered even half of the distance to the dragon, yanking him back. Struggling, he cursed at the blond elf, trying to rip his arm free to no avail.

“Amor, you must not do this. Let us not lose our head now, yes? We have archers and mages, and we will weaken this monster before you slay it.”

He swallowed hard. Fälin knew Zevran was being sensible, but nodding was still one of the hardest things he had had to do all night. He let Zev lead him away, however, and soon the two of them were set up with a few other archers, sending shaft after shaft at the scaly hide.

A short distance away, Morrigan had rallied the eleven remaining mages—or maybe they had flocked to her, because it was not likely _she_ had sought _them_ out—and was leading them in a surprisingly co-ordinated assault on the archdemon’s legs. Or course, the beast did not like that and they quickly became a focus point for its counterattack. Still, the mages quickly worked out a method of divide and conquer, keeping the archdemon’s attention on them.

It was not even close to safe, however, and the poor souls were slowly being cut down. That went for all of them, of course, as Eamon’s knights were just as hard-pressed. Even the werewolves were hardly immortal.

And all of that was before the reinforcements began arriving.

They were not reinforcements from Fälin’s troops.

He stepped forward, setting Falon’Din’s Reach down and reaching back to draw his blades. A hand on his arm stopped  him, and he glanced back to see Zevran once again holding him back.

“It’s now or never, Zev. I gotta go.”

“Sí, yes, I understand. Just…be careful, Fälin. You must return.”

There was clear worry in those amber eyes, and for the first time since he had entered Fort Drakon—nay, Denerim—he felt his fears take backseat to his other emotions. He loved Zevran, there was no denying that, and this…this was why he fought. He fought to protect those he loved…

_Just like everyone else_.

“Promise,” he agreed, slipping his hand into Zevran’s and squeezing. “Wait for me.”

Whipping his blades out, he turned and charged straight for the archdemon. His exhaustion seemed to fade away as epinephrine seized him, pumping through his veins and quickening his heartbeat to almost dangerous speeds. Still he did not slow.

Ducking under one wounded forearm, he lashed out with Fang, scoring a deep hit in the tough flesh. Spinning lightly, he hopped back further, placing him fully under the dragon and out of range of both maw and tail.

Not wasting any time, he gripped Topsider’s Honour tightly, pointed it up, and _jumped_. His momentum carried him high enough to dig the sharp point into the less well-armoured hide of Urthemiel’s underbelly, piercing the scales and causing thick, red blood to cascade down on him.

…it was a good thing he already carried the taint.

This action did not go ignored, and the dragon reared up, lashing out with its foreclaws and successfully catching Fälin hard on the side. He was thrown several feet, finally rolling to a stop not far from one of the Circle mages.

Or, rather, a Circle mage’s corpse.

Swinging his legs under him, Fälin was halfway to his feet when he felt a hot mouth close over him, encompassing his entire torso. With a sharp cry, he tried to twist free. Its fangs had pierced his armour in several areas; hot blood flowed from the wounds.

And, Maker’s flaming _ass_ , it _hurt_.

Was this it? Was he going to die here? So stupidly? No! No, he did not want to die! Fuck, he had done just about everything in his power to ensure that that did not happen, and yet here he was, dangling forty feet in the air _in the jaws of the archdemon_.

Dying would be the easy way out, anyway. He had to live…for everyone who was waiting for him to come back.

Twisting as best he could in Urthemiel’s jaws, Fälin dropped Fang and grabbed his sword’s hilt in both hands. Wrenching his arms back as far as he could, Fälin then swung his shoulders forward, slamming the dragonbone blade deep into one purple eye.

His hands barely kept hold of the sword as the dragon cried out, tossing its head back and releasing him in the same instant. His armour caught on the dragon’s fangs, prompting the archdemon to shake its head, and then he was ripped free of the sharp protrusions, freeing him from his precarious position.

Dangling in midair, only one hand still on Topsider’s hilt, Fälin felt panic rise in his throat as the dragon shook its head in an effort to dislodge him. He _really_ did not want this thing falling on top of him. His worries were for naught, as it seemed the demon, injured though it was, had other plans. One scaled foreclaw lashed out, aimed straight for him. He could not help it, he screamed as its claws tore across his back, shredding most of what was left of Wade’s armour off of his torso and opening his back in the process.

The world seemed to be spinning, but strangely enough, he felt nothing. He felt like…he _should_ be in pain, but there was nothing, just a dull, numb sensation. His ears were ringing, and his eyes did not want to open.

“Amor? _Amor_!”

Zevran? Was he dead? No. Zevran was not dead…was he?

Slowly, he forced his eyes open. His head was lying in the other elf’s lap, and the platinum blond man actually looked terrified. Hah, he had never seen Zev scared before.

“Amor, you must stay with me, please. Stay here.”

Had he been able to move, he would have. As things were, he could not. In fact, he could not even feel much of anything, not even the blood he knew he was laying in. He could, however, feel a prick of cold as a single, pristine flake of snow landed on his cheek.

“Move, you foolish elf!”

They were turning him over—when had Morrigan gotten here?—and then there was the dim light he recognised as the apostate’s meager healing spell. So, he had not died, then? No, he had been over this already…

~

Zevran had never been so afraid. Seeing Fälin picked up by the archdemon had made him want to cry out, but then the redhead had gotten free like the fighter he was. The monster had been falling, its brain pierced by the redhead’s sword, and it had seemed like Fälin might be safe, if he just acted quickly enough…

And then it had hit him. He had never heard Fälin cry out like that—had never heard _anyone_ cry out like that—and it had made his heart skip a beat. Zevran had not taken the time to recover from the shock, however, and had raced over to where Fälin’s crumpled body had hit the ground, fearing the worst. Never before had he been so relieved to see anyone’s eyes open.

Just because Fälin was alive at the moment did not mean he would be for long, however. Morrigan was soon at his side, her healing magic washing over Fälin and barely managing to close the wound. The witch seemed ill at ease, despite the cessation of bleeding, and it was clear they were on the same page with this, at least.

“I will go and retrieve the old one. Get him off the tower and to the palace district. She will meet you there.”

Not questioning, Zevran scooped Fälin up and turned and ran for the exit. He was dimly aware of the meager remnants of their forces collecting themselves, and of Morrigan launching herself from the edge of the tower, but all he was really focussed on was putting one foot in front of the other.

He ran all of the way down the tower with Sausage at his heels, neither even pausing when they heard a loud boom sound from above them, and straight out into the courtyard. He had debated long and hard whether or not to risk riding, but in the end the pale, cold look to Fälin’s complexion had decided for him. There was no time to lose.

Cutting Warden’s saddle off, he let it drop to the ground before moving Fälin onto the stallion’s back as gently as possible. Jumping up after, he seated Fay in front of him, so they were chest-to-chest, and wrapped one arm around the other elf to steady him. He tried to ignore the feeling of caked blood and the strips of flesh hanging from the other man’s skin as he kicked Warden into a gallop.

The speed they set was reckless. The streets were slippery with blood, slush, and other bodily fluids, yet Zevran did not care. He had to trust his horse to get them through it.

And get them through it the stallion did. Warden seemed to sense his rider’s distress, and carried them through the streets with powerful, ground-eating strides.

By the time they arrived at the promised meeting place, Wynne was already there, a sweat-soaked Mana standing, trembling, not far off. Zevran did not waste any time asking where Morrigan had gone, and instead swung off of his own mount.

Wordlessly, he laid Fälin down on his stomach. It was impossible to get a good look at the injuries through the blood and gore that covered the other man, and, knowing that Wynne would need to see, he set to work cleaning up as best he could.

First off, he cut away what was left of Fälin’s cuirass, getting it out of the way. They then both set to work trying to clean away enough of the mess so they could at least see the outline of the wounds.

At some point, the dog joined them, and to Zevran’s surprise, the older mage allowed him to lick away some of the mess. Well, perhaps time really was more their enemy than even the risk of infection, here. Infection, Wynne could clean out. Time she could not get back

It was just as Wynne deemed the mess workable that Zevran heard the clatter of more hooves, and looked up just in time to see a lathered Paladin galloping up, bearing on his back Alistair and Cyrion. The former swung off of the palomino’s back and raced over.

“Is he…? He’s not…”

“No, he is not,” Wynne replied sharply. “Now kindly hold your tongue so I may concentrate.”

Silence fell then, broken only by soft footfalls as Cyrion walked over. The older elf’s face was lined with age and worry, but he wisely held his tongue as Wynne worked. Not that Zevran cared. All of his attention was on Fälin.

The redhead was alive, but barely. His breaths were shallow and his face pale. He _was_ breathing, though, and that had to be enough for now.

After what felt like no time and at all, and yet forever at the same time, Wynne dropped back, landing on her rump in the street. As Alistair hurried to help her up, Zevran stepped closer and knelt down, pressing one hand to his lover’s cold cheek.

“Is he…?” It was Cyrion who voiced the question on everyone’s mind.

“For now, yes. We need to get him somewhere and clean him up properly. I’ve managed to knit together as much of the internal damage as I could, but you understand that this isn’t something I can do all at once. The patch job he had done may have stopped him from bleeding out, but even that’s going to have to be healed again. All she did was close off the major veins and arteries, and I’ll have to reopen them to fix him properly. And soon.” The older mage sighed. “But I need to sit for a moment.”

“But he…he will live?” Cyrion pressed.

“I believe so, yes.” Pressing a hand to her brow, Wynne sighed tiredly. “The real question is whether or not he will walk again.”

 Those words hit hard, leaving all of them in silence for a long moment as they sank in. It was Zevran who moved first, deciding that it was useless to sit and fret, rather than try to actually _do_ something.

“Well, he is not going to walk again if we do not help him, yes? So let’s be off. I am sure he will be much more comfortable in a proper bed.”

“Because we have so many of those,” Alistair replied sarcastically, earning him a sharp glare.

“Enough, both of you!” an exasperated Wynne exclaimed. “I do _not_ have the patience for your antics. Let’s deal with important matters.

“Alistair, where is Morrigan? I trust she went to get you, and I need to have a word with her about such crude healing methods.”

“Uh…she just told me to come here, and then took off. I thought she’d be here, to be honest.”

Zevran’s lips tightened. He knew that the witch had run off, but he would hold his tongue. All that he really cared about was right here. Rubbing the still-cool skin on Fälin’s cheek, he finally bent to pick the other elf up.

“Well, if she is not here she is not here. But I believe the warden _is_ here, yes? And right now, it is he who needs our attention.”

“You’re absolutely correct, Zevran, though I admit I never thought I would say that. I can deal with her another time.”

“You’re right. Let’s get back. It should be safe enough. The darkspawn scattered the moment the archdemon fell.”

“That is the best news I have had in minutes, my dear Alistair. Shall we?”

With that, they set to work fashioning a litter for Fälin, using Wynne’s staff and Zevran’s unstrung longbow, as well as their belts and the blanket on Paladin.

“Do either of you need healing?” It was clear the Wynne was tired, but she had ever a healer’s heart.

“I’m fine, Wynne.” Zevran did not miss the way the human male’s eyes flicked his way. “But you might want to check Zev. I’m pretty sure he’s hiding something.”

Ah, drat. He had thought he had done so well even he had not noticed his own wounds, but alas, the way his thigh and shoulder were bleeding did not lend well to concealment. Still, Wynne was exhausted, and they needed her to heal Fälin more the moment she could. He could wait.

“No, save your strength, my lovely Wynne. He is much more important.” Reaching down, Zevran caught Fälin’s hand and squeezed it. “I will live. The same cannot be said for certain of all of us, no?”

He tried not to see the relief in Wynne’s eyes at his refusal, because seeing it would mean he would have to acknowledge how bad things really were.

“Well, Alistair and I will carry him,” Cyrion finally piped up. “You take it easy…Zevran.”

Knowing he could not really argue, and frankly not having the energy to, he conceded the point. He did not move from the litter’s side, however, keeping close by Fälin as they set out. He would not lose this one, too. Not again.

~

Fälin was warm. That was the first thing he was aware of, noting it in stark contrast to the nothingness he had felt when last he was conscience. If he truly believed in the Maker, he might have thought he was dead, but as things were, his logical mind was screaming at him to just open his damn eyes look, because that was the best way to figure things out.

So, he did—and closed them again. It was too bloody bright! It was also too warm. He had always preferred the cold, and right now he was really missing it. He was dimly aware that there was something over him, and that he was on his stomach. With that thought in mind, he tried to roll over, intending to shove the blanket away once he was in a position to do so, but found himself unable to manage that. His arms worked, but his legs felt like jelly—oh, that was how he imagined they felt; he could not really feel them at all. They just did not want to obey him.

Well, that sucked. Now if only he could figure out where he was…and why. He could vaguely recall Zevran leaning over him, and he was pretty sure he had killed the archdemon, a thought which made him even _more_ certain that he was remembering dreams.

The archdemon could not be dead…could it? Come to think of it, he could not hear the song…

_That_ woke him up, yanking the last vestiges of fog from his mind with the force of a roaring dragon. The song was really gone. He could…he could not hear it, for the first time in he-did-not-care-to-think-how-long, _it was gone_.

“Wynne, Wynne he’s awake!”

He tried to croak the yeller’s name, only it took him three tries to even manage a weak, “A-Al?”

“I’m here, Fay. Just relax. Wynne’ll be here to look at you in a sec.”

“Wh—?”

“Shh. We’re in Eamon’s manor, the one in Denerim. The city’s not really…okay, but this place was the only one we could take you to. Wynne wanted you someplace warm and quiet.”

“You will surely talk his ear off, Alistair.”

How he had not noticed that _someone was lying in bed with him_ , Fälin did not know. Sure, it was just Zevran, but that was something he _really_ should have noticed.

“U-uh. Right. Sorry, Fay.”

“My warden, come,” Zevran shifted, “look at me and I will help you with a drink, yes?”

That was well and fine in theory, but he was so disoriented, Fälin had to admit that he had no idea which side of him the other elf was on. And dammit, but it was so bright.

“Fay, you okay? Can you see? What if he’s blind, Zev? Did Wynne say anything about that?”

“Kindly settle yourself before you frighten _him_ , dear Alistair,” Zevran replied calmly. “I should think his eyes are merely sensitive to the light, yes?”

“R… _ight_ ,” he choked out, and a moment later a hand was under his head, lifting it and tipping his chin up. Next, a goblet was pressed to his lips, and he greedily sucked at the water not caring as some of it spilt to the pillow below him. Zevran withdrawing the cup far too soon.

“Slowly, my dear. You must take it slowly.”

Slowly, like the way he finally began to open his eyes. His retinas burned as the light hit them, but he was rewarded with the sight of his dishevelled lover. Zevran looked exhausted, and his normally-pristine hair was tangled and was that blood in it?

The elf in question chuckled. “Do not look at me so, my warden. If I look a bit messy, I assure you that you are one hundred times worse.”

Fälin forced a grin. “Help…me with,” he coughed, “that?”

“A-ha! See, this is why I am so attached to you. You truly do have the best of ideas.”

Despite his own joking words, Fälin was scared. He did not understand why he could not move all of his body, or why he was here, and had that fight with the archdemon really happened? He did not know, and so he fell back on the one thing that served well to cover one’s emotions: humour. Because nothing else seemed to make sense.

“Yes well, if you two are quite done, I would like to see my patient.” When had Wynne arrived? “Kindly give me space, Zevran.”

The bed shifted as the blond climbed to Fälin’s other side, and then hands were on him, moving the blankets back and tugging at something on his torso—bandages?—and pulling it away. Wynne began to speak, then, likely for his benefit. “You’re out of the danger zone, at least. You will live, though I fear your back may be a bit…different from now on.”

“Different,” he swallowed, “how?”

“Well, the archdem—”

“Wait, that wasn’t a dream?” he burst out, his voice suddenly deciding to return to him.

“No, if you would let me speak, you would know it was not. You fought it, and you killed it.”

“How long ago?”

“It has been just under a day since your victory. It is early morning, and I first began treating you late yesterday morning. The battle lasted all night and much of the morning.” Wynne paused, as though waiting for him to speak. When he did not, she continued. “You are quite lucky to be with us.”

“How bad?”

“The city…suffered extensive damage. There were many casualties, and it will be long before it is rebuilt to its former state.”

“Not…the city.” Fälin winced at his own selfishness. “My…my injuries. I remember it…I almost died. I really…almost died.” A hand found his arm and rubbed it gently.

“Yes, you really did almost die. It caught you across the back, from what I understand, and because your armour was already torn, it offered little protection when it lashed out at you.”

“How bad, Wynne?” He was not going to be deterred. The more she evaded the details, the more suspicious he was growing.

“I’m trying to fix it as best I can, but Fälin? You might not walk again.”

Her words hit him like a blow to the gut. Turning his head to look at the older mage for the first time, he tried to keep the fear off of his face. After a moment, he grinned. “Is that all? Well, guess I’ll just have to get you to push me around in wheelchair for the rest of my life, hey Zev?” he joked, turning his head to meet the other elf’s eyes.

For once, Zevran was not smiling with him. “My warden…”

“Don’t…don’t Zev. Just _don’t_.” He hated the strained note in his voice. “I…need you in this with me.”

“That is one thing you need not fear, amor. I am yours.”

“Then get that damn look off your face. I’m fine, okay?” Had he been able to hear the frantic note in his own tone, perhaps he would have moderated it. “Just. Fucking. _Fine_.”

“Wynne, Alistair. Would you be so kind as to inform out warden’s family that he has awakened? I would speak to him alone for a moment.”

Fälin expected an argument, but the two left without a word, leaving him alone with his lover—suddenly, that did not seem such a good thing.

“Zev…”

“Fälin, you do not have to pretend for me. You were badly injured, and it may not be repairable. Are you truly prepared for that?”

“…I was almost prepared to die, if it came to that,” he admitted, “I wasn’t expecting this. But…but I’m alive, and…and I’ll figure it out. Just _don’t_ pity me. I can handle it.”

“Well, let us not get too far ahead, hm?” Zev finally grinned. “It may yet be that Wynne can fix you completely. And there is more good news.”

“Hm?”

“Denerim is free of living darkspawn. There are many bodies yet to be burned, but the city is Alistair’s.”

“Well, that’s good.” Truthfully, though, he could not completely shake his own fear, still nestled deep in his gut. “I guess that means I can retire now.”

“Sí. Let us go to Antiva, hm? We can retire to a nice beach house and spend our evenings watching the sun set over the ocean.”

“…you know, that sounds pretty damn…boring.”

That drew a laugh from the blond. “It does indeed, my warden.”

~

It was days before Fälin was able to move enough to get a real idea of the damage that had been done to him. Wynne had been visiting him several times a day, checking him over and doing what she could to repair the damage that still existed under the now-closed wounds. It was not a quick job, and he often found that he _hurt_ , but that was a good sign, because it meant that the muscles and nerves in his back were knitting back together.

Wynne had warned him that there might be problems in the future, because apparently she was being forced to compress the muscles, tendons, and ligaments of his back under the scar tissue. He would take that over dying, though, so he sucked it up, plastered a stupid grin on his face, and let it go.

…at least in _public_. Truthfully, he was angry; he was bitter that _he_ should have to pay this price. He could not let Zev or Wynne or any other of his friends see that, though, so he forced a grin and let it go. At least, he tried to. There were times when his temper got the better of him, however, no matter how hard he tried to hold it in check.

Well, he had always had a bit of a temper, anyway. If it was worse since Fort Drakon, then that was just something everyone else could deal with.

What truly remained to be seen was whether the severance in his spinal column would knit back together completely. Wynne was optimistic, though she cautioned him not to get his hopes too high. Given that he still needed help sitting up, he could not really help _but_ get his hopes up.

Not everything was the good news they had given him that day, though it was not all bad, either. Solea had been tainted, as Fälin had predicated, and they had rushed the woman off to Orlais to try and have the wardens there help her. He had not heard anything back, so he suspected the worst.

The loss of life was astronomical, and even the task of collecting all of the dead was momentous. The bodies often were barely kept around long enough to be identified before they were burned, human, elf, dwarf, and darkspawn alike. It was sordid, but it was also necessary to keep the city free of disease.

The cleanup was no easier, but for that, at least, there was no shortage of willing hands. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to put this behind them and move on.

Perhaps the most interesting, if not overly important, piece of news he had received was that someone had turned up a little mare in the city. Apparently, she had been ridden by Solea during the assault, and so, with that in mind, Alistair had ordered the mare cared for, should the woman ever have need of her again.

One of Alistair’s nephews had died. Apparently the boy was something of a hero with Fälin’s people, though why he did not know. It was unfortunate, but at least Goldanna was speaking to his friend, now. Fälin was not convinced that the woman was worth it, but he knew that it secretly made Alistair happy, so he did not say anything.

Perhaps the best news he had ever received was that his entire family had survived. Aside from his father and Shianni, whom he had seen that night, Soris had turned up alive and only slightly the worse for wear. Many other elves had died, and they had lost the Vhenadahl, but…it could be worse.

Morrigan was gone, but he had expected that. She was the only one of his friends not here, currently, and that meant a lot to him. Nobody…nobody had died.

He was alive, and so were those closest to him, and that…that mattered, he decided. Currently, he was sitting up, legs dangling uselessly over the edge of his bed, and leaning against Zevran. The other elf was running a hand up and down his side.

“How do you feel?”

“Doesn’t hurt too bad today,” he admitted with a shrug. “…I think…it might be okay.”

“May I try something?”

“Go ahead.” Mystified, Fälin glanced down as Zevran’s hand pulled away and slipped behind him. He waited patiently for something to happen, and when it did not, he glanced at Zevran, frowning. “Today?”

“So Wynne was correct.”

“Corr—? Spit it out, Zev,” he snapped, shortened temper getting the better of him for the moment, “what are you doing?”

“I am touching your back.”

Twisting, Fälin almost unbalanced in his effort to see the other’s hand. “Fuck off, no you’re not.”

“I am. Wynne warned that you might not be able to feel anything in the areas where the demon clawed your back. It seems she was correct to worry.”

“…I want to see.”

“See?”

“My back, what else? Wynne didn’t heal that, did she?”

“No, my warden, she did heal it.”

“That’s not what I mean, I mean…she told me she didn’t have enough space to work, right? The scars. They’re there, aren’t they?”

Zev hesitated, and then sighed. “Yes. Yes, amor, they are.”

Zevran rose to bring the room’s large stand mirror over and then, after helping Fälin turn so his back was to the mirror, also retrieved a hand mirror. Accepting the offering, Fälin held the smaller mirror up, and all but felt himself blanch as he caught sight of his skin.

Honestly, he had run his hands over his back before, or tried to though it was usually bandaged, but this was his first time _seeing_ it. Four huge gauges had been taken out of his back. The top most one disappeared over his right shoulder, marking a short ways down his forearm, and the bottom most mark did the same, though over his left thigh and hip.

“She…couldn’t fix _this_?” he forced out, voice choked.

“No, Fälin, she could not. She chose to try to focus on restoring your motor function instead. There is a limit to even the capabilities of magic. You know this.”

Yes, he did, but still…!

“And yet I may never walk again anyway.”

“Fay…”

“Help me up, Zev.”

“Warden…?”

“Help me up!”

“Is there a reason? If you need the bedpan…”

“Wynne did everything she could to help me walk again, right?”

“Sí, most assuredly.”

“So, then what do you think I’m doing? I’m going to walk.”

The blond hesitated only a moment before grinning. “This is the warden I know.”

Fälin had no idea what that meant, but he was grateful to feel Zevran’s strong arms helping support him.

~

“Fay, come on! The coronation’s starting like _now_!”

Ignoring Shianni, Fälin took a quick moment to check himself over in the mirror. His armour had been trashed by the archdemon, but he would settle for the rich, blue tunic he wore. It was adorned with silver, and the wardens’ marching griffon was emblazoned on the front. He looked pretty good in it, if he did say so himself.

“How do I look?”

“Mm, truly? If you looked any better in that, I would have to take it off of you.”

Fälin laughed. “Well, we can’t have that. Alistair probably expects me to be clothed. He did put off his own coronation for my sake.”

“Yes, it is unfortunate.”

Punching his lover in the shoulder, Fälin turned and made for the door. “Well then, let’s get this over with so we can get back up here.”

Behind him, Zevran waited only a moment before jogging after him. “As you say. Let this be short.”

**_-Fin_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it (although there is a humourous companion piece to this that'll I'll be posting shortly). Of all of the stories I've ever written, I think I'm most pleased with this one. I hope everyone who got this far enjoyed it, and if you'd be so kind as to leave feedback, I'd be overjoyed! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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